The Mirror
by J. E. Weyre
Summary: On her deathbed, Christine is given the opportunity to return to the Opéra Populaire, to take the chance to make new decisions, to live a new life. Rated M for eventual sexual content and adult themes. AU
1. A twist of Fate

Christine de Chagny emerged from a carriage emblazoned with the de Chagny crest. Raoul helped her down by placing two hands at her waist and twirled her in the air before placing her on her feet. She laughed and blushed at his antics, clutching a bouquet of beautiful daisies as her new husband pulled her close and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.

"Soon," he whispered to her gaily. "Soon we will be on our way to a new place in the world, to start our lives together far away from here."

She beamed back at him, gazing lovingly into his deep blue eyes, running a gloved hand through his golden hair. They pulled each other close in a hug, then Roaul pulled back. He held her hand and pulled her along with him, nearly running to the docks to board their ship.

They slowed as they grew nearer, and Christine marveled at the tall masts, the massive, billowing sails. She had never seen a ship so large. It rocked slowly out in the harbor, the mermaid figurehead beckoning her with open arms pointing to the sky.

Raoul watched Christine's reaction, savoring each morsel of excitement flowing from her as they faced their glorious future.

He led her to the waiting rowboat and helped her to take a seat next to him in the unstable craft. As the rowman took them to the ship, Christine removed one of her gloves and leaned close to the side, trailing her hand through the water.

"I've never been on a boat before, much less a grand ship! Oh thank you, Raoul. This is the perfect way for us to spend our honeymoon." She carefully wrapped an arm around his waist as he snaked an arm around her shoulders, and the couple sat in contented silence until they reached the ship, swaying with the boat as waves lapped gently against the sides.

When they reached the sailing vessel, the rowman stood to catch the ladder that had been tossed over the side and helped the young couple to pull themselves onto it. "Stay well, Monsieur and Madame. May your love remain forever strong!" He chuckled to himself as he rowed away, remembering the first moments he had shared with his own wife.

Two strong arms reached down and helped Christine over the rail of the ship, and she was grateful to once again find her feet on somewhat steady ground. She took a deep breath of salty ocean air and looked back for Raoul, who soon emerged over the railing, climbing gracefully over. He walked to her and placed a sweet kiss on her lips. In response, the sailors to whistled and made lewd catcalls. The couple blushed and broke from one another, keeping their hands intertwined as they approached the captain.

"Ah, le Vicomte de Chagny. It is an honor to have you and your lovely bride join us for this journey," the captain said, bowing deeply. He was clearly a gentleman and a man of honor. The many military pins on his lapel shone in the sunlight, and his manner was that of the respectful soldier. "May our journey be swift and without incident!"

"Hear hear," returned Raoul, who grinned and offered the captain his hand to shake.

"Madame," a small voice said from somewhere around her waist. She looked down to see a slightly dirty cabin boy holding her bags. "May I show you to your rooms?"

She smiled down at him, gently ruffing his dirty hair and laughing at the rain of soot that fell from it. "Certainly. What were you doing today young one, cleaning chimneys?"

The little boy grinned cheekily, but did not provide an answer. As he led her away, she waved back to Raoul, not wanting to leave him for a moment, but desperate to remove her wide brimmed hat and feel the wind through her unbound hair.

The compartments were small, but clean and well laid out. There was a small table at which they could sit, and a comfortable looking bed. She blushed when she noticed its size - a perfectly cozy fit for two.

The boy placed her bags at the end of the bed, then turned to her with his palm extended, expecting a tip. She placed a copper in it, and he ran out of the room.

Christine walked through the rooms, running her hands over the beautifully carved wooden furniture, noticing that every single piece was bolted in place. She thought of the gentle rocking of the ship, imaging how it would be in a bad storm. _A good thing then_ , she thought, _they had the foresight to nail it all down!_

She walked through a narrow door on the wall to her left which presumably led to a closet, but found herself in another room entirely. A small sitting room, decorated decadently. She suddenly felt a presence, but a glance around the room confirmed she was alone.

The walls were lined with books, held in place by lengths of wood that could be shifted to allow them to be removed. A small brazier burned in the corner, but otherwise no light graced this room. There were no windows.

In the middle of the room, there was a high-backed, winged chair, flanked by a small table covered in a scarlet, velvet cover. When she saw what sat upon it, she balked and covered her face with her hand.

It was a musical score. It was Don Juan, and across it lay a red rose, its thorns stripped, a black ribbon tied around the stem.

She ran from the room, slammed the door shut, and fainted on the bed.

* * *

Rain pattered gently against the windowsill of the room of the former Vicomtesse de Chagny. A fire burned low in the huge, marble fireplace. The glorious centerpiece of the room. No other source of light could be found.

The wooden floors were covered in fine Persian rugs, kept meticulously clean by the de Chagny household staff. The room was fitted with a beautiful ivory colored vanity, which sat empty and unused. The massive wardrobe was filled with only a few nightgowns.

In this grand room, the only personal possession clearly visible was the violin. Her father's violin, displayed proudly on a table near her bed.

Christine stared at it, lying prone on the bed, letting one arm dangle from the side, her fingertips just barely grazing the carpet. She let it swing just enough to be sure that she was still alive, to be sure her blood still pumped in her veins, painfully tearing through her broken heart.

She had been dreaming of her honeymoon, the start of her honeymoon. The moment she realized she could never be free of her phantom. Or was he an angel?

She had searched the wall in the ship, her fingers scrabbling desperately to find the entrance to the room, to show Raoul what she had found. The book, the rose. He was there!

But she could not find anything. There were no keyholes, no handles, no hidden seams. It was just a wall.

Raoul humored her paranoia about an attached room for a few days, but soon grew annoyed when she made it clear that she would not feel comfortable consummating their relationship after what she had seen. What if he was watching? What if he saw them?

After they had landed, Christine finally felt comfortable enough to put her fears to rest, and gave herself to Raoul fully that night in their hotel room. She had enjoyed their interaction, but felt unfulfilled afterwards. Still, she loved her Raoul and was just happy to please him, finally, as his wife.

The next morning, Christine woke early too restless to remain in bed. She descended to breakfast while Raoul slept, and on the table she was led to in the dining room there was a red rose. Its thorns stripped. A black ribbon tied around the stem. She picked it up, determined not to be called a fool, and raced back to her hotel room.

When she had woken Roul, he was upset. She had held out her hand to show him the rose, but instead she held a daisy. The same kind of daisy that Raoul had given her before their departure. She stared at it incredulously and sank into a chair in the room. She had been so afraid, so confused. How was he doing this? Or was it all in her mind?

The rest of the honeymoon had passed uneventfully, though Christine found it difficult to continue to engage in relations with Raoul. Every time she did, a rose appeared for her. He knew, her phantom, he was with them, but she could never prove to Raoul what she was seeing, and his annoyance grew with her.

By the time they had returned to Paris, their relationship was strained. They put on a good show for his family and for the Parisian elite, but at home she could not hide her fear, and he could not help but feel his annoyance growing towards her. She was safe! The phantom was dead. How could she be unhappy in their new life?

Though they met together every night as man and wife for three months, Christine did not get pregnant. The de Chagny family was growing impatient for an heir, and the mounting pressure pushed Christine to the brink of insanity. Each morning, a red rose tied with a black ribbon appeared on the windowsill in her room, disappearing the next time she went to look for it. She was too afraid to ever open her window out of fear that he would find his way in.

After two years of trying with Raoul, with no results, Christine was declared barren. The de Chagny family shunned her, and Raoul grew as cold to her as he was affectionate to other women at the many parties and balls they attended.

She lost weight, her skin hanging baggily on her tiny, diminished form. Before long, she took ill. Her lack of care for herself, the constant fear and the pressure had finally worn her down.

After that, she was sent away. Though it was known that she was still alive, Raoul was allowed to annul the marriage, due to her barren womb, and find a new wife. A beautiful, noble wife who bore him five sons and three daughters. The de Chagny clan was ecstatic.

Christine was broken. Raoul, out of respect for their long friendship and now cold, neglected love, kept her in a little-used country home owned by the family. She was comfortable, fed, and clothed. She hated the charity, but knew not what else she could do with herself.

She remained primarily inside, speaking little if any, and never singing. The roses stopped. Even the phantom had abandoned her. But then the roses returned, appearing weekly at least, sometimes daily. Along with books, sheet music, other small trinkets.

She never accepted these gifts, but was happy when she saw them. With the space of years between her and that fateful night of the opera fire, she recalled her long friendship with her Angel of Music and thought of him with sorrowful remorse. A man, she knew now, who had been her friend and support after the death of her father. Who had taught her how to become a part of music, how to open her soul and let it flow with the heat of her deepest passion. How desperately she wanted to sing, but each time she took in a breath to raise her voice, it died in her throat.

After ten years of seclusion, Christine had taken fatally ill. She had refused a fire, and with her poor nutrition and the cold she contracted pneumonia, which now caused her lungs to rattle terribly. The staff had finally convinced her of a fire and a doctor, but it was too late. She was nearly gone; she could feel it.

A small sound at the window pulled her out of her reverie. She mustered all of what was left of her feeble strength, and pushed herself up from the bed, coughing terribly as she rose. Her body shook from the chill in the room, but she pushed forward, coughing and wheezing with every step.

When she reached the window, she leaned heavily on the sill. She glanced over the moonlit grounds, feeling a stranger to them though she had lived here for a decade. They were not hers; they were his. Raoul's. His wife's, his children's. She was but a temporary ward.

On the ledge outside the window, she noticed a rose. Not the customary red rose, but a white rose, its thorns in tact and a red ribbon tied around the stem. Something in the ribbon gleamed.

She looked out into the darkness and pressed a hand against the window. _I should have let you take me_ , she thought, _I should have stayed with you. You were my one true friend, my one companion. Of course my rejection drove you mad, for I was everything to you._

 _I am sorry._

With tears rolling down her cheeks, Christine released the latch on the window and opened it, careful not to send the rose cascading to the ground as it swung outward.

She grasped the rose tightly, gripping it in her thin, bony hands. The thorns bit into her skin, and she smiled at the sensation of pain. She had not felt real, tactile, prickling pain in so long.

She sank to the floor and carefully untied the ribbon, letting the shiny metal fall into her hand. It was the ring. The ring her Angel had given her so long ago. She slipped it on to her bony finger and formed a tight fist to keep it from slipping off.

A sob escaped her lips and she let the rose fall to the ground, covering her face with her hands. She smelled the ribbon still clutched in her hand, recognizing the familiar, musky scent of her phantom. Of her Angel.

Slowly, she crawled back to her bed, her fisted hand chafing against the decadent rugs. With the last of her strength, she pulled herself up onto the mattress and curled into a ball, cradling the hand that bore the ring close to her heart.

"I am ready," she said aloud. "I am ready, finally, to die."

With that, the fire in the fireplace extinguished and all light slid from the room. She was in total darkness.

"Come little one," a voice rasped in her ear, "follow me to paradise."

* * *

The Angel of Death hovered close over the diminished body of Christine Daaé. Though only thirty years old, her face was pale and drawn. She could have passed for a woman twenty years her elder. The girl was curled into a ball, holding her left hand protectively to her chest. Her breath rattled, and it could smell the death clinging to her. It reached a scaly hand to brush a ratted curl from Christine's thin face and gently pulled her hand from the shelter of her body.

The ring that shone there awoke an odd pain within the angel, a familiar and beautiful pain. _Erik_ it breathed in a language not of earth. It knew this man, the beautiful pain he suffered as he suffocated in the throes of his love. Death had found him on many occasions since his youth, sure that this time would be the last, but always he pulled away from death, as if desperate to stay alive for something else. Something beyond his own life.

Death had spent days basking in his pain, waiting for him to finally release his grip on life, but it never came. Now it seemed the reason he clung to life so desperately was laid out and ready to die, clutching this object of his love close to her heart.

"Will you take me now," Christine asked softly, already feeling the pain of living starting to melt away. Death hesitated. Erik would not live through this, his would be the next soul to harvest. He would be ready.

But after so many years, after so much pain, Death was not ready for him.

"No," it whispered in a gravelly voice.

Christine's brow furrowed in confusion. "But, but you said, paradise. I must go there; I must wait for him, for only in death can we return to one another."

"No," Death whispered again forcefully. "I am sending you back. Both of you."

"But why?" she cried desperately. "I cannot relive this life," her voice broke, imagining finding herself here again. Living another thirty horrible years, again rejecting the man who she truly loved out of fear.

"You will not. You will live your own life, but that of another."

Again, Christine could not hide her confusion. "How, what do you mean?"

"I am sending you back to the Opéra Populaire. You must try again. You must try again to make him happy."

"But how?" she cried desperately. "I won't remember, I won't know not to fear him! I will run! Please, take me away from this life!"

"No," Death rasped again. "You will know your mind, but live the life of another. Do not waste it."

With that, Christine's vision grew dim.

"No," she whispered, fighting the darkness. "No, no, no..."


	2. In Time

Christine woke to`the sound of feet moving quickly and loudly outside her door. It sounded like the whole of the staff in the household, maybe more. She cracked open one eye and found herself staring at a white plaster wall.

 _Odd,_ she thought. She closed her eye again, thinking that she must still be asleep, that her encounter with Death was nothing but a sweet dream.

A sharp knock came on her door, and her eyes flew open. Still, she saw the white plaster wall on which she could trace the strokes the craftsman had made while spreading it. She frowned confusedly; her dreams were normally not this vivid.

Cautiously, she took a short breath, then breathed in more deeply. She breathed easily. The rattle once a companion to each breath was now gone. _How is this possible?_

She sat up quickly, swinging her legs over the side of the small bed, feeling the rough blankets scratch lightly against her skin as they fell away. The room around her was familiar, but not known to her. The floor was scratched with wear, but solid under her feet. In the corner sat a small table with a washing basin and above it, built into the wall, was a set of curiously empty shelves.

This room, she was certain, was in the dormitories of the Opéra Populaire It was spartan, but clean. The bedding looked and felt exactly like what she had used while living there as a young ballerina. She remembered how she would place small figurines on the shelves in her room, figurines given to her by her sweet Angel.

Christine's mind began to race. Was this the paradise the Angel of Death had promised? What had it said just before the world went dark?

 _You will know your mind, but live the life of another._

She looked down at her hands. Though they were rough with calluses when she rubbed them together, they were undoubtedly her hands. The hands which were hers in her youth. Before she became the _prima donna_ , before that fateful night, before Raoul. They were the hands of a lovely young ballerina for whom the world was her opera, her future bright and undetermined.

Another loud knock at the door wrenched her from her musing.

"You comin' out girl?" a deep, womanly voice shouted her through the door. She heard the woman shift from one foot to another and the door creaked softly, as if the owner of the voice was ready to lean into the door and make her way into the room.

 _Live the life of another_ , she reminded herself. This woman must know her, she should answer the door. Christine sighed resignedly and slipped on the simple frock that hung on the back of the door. As she moved around, she reveled in the strength and grace of her young body. Finally, she pulled open the door cautiously.

"Well thank you for joining us, your majesty!" the woman cooed sarcastically, taking in the small young woman standing before her. The woman spent a few long moments looking at her face, and Christine suddenly felt foolish for forgetting to wash it. Then in an authoritative tone the woman continued, "Tomorrow be on time, eh? Or not even Mme. Giry can keep you in work."

Christine nodded mutely, her mind racing over the thought that she still knew Mme. Giry in this life. _Is Meg here? Can I once again be with the women who opened their arms to me?_

Sighing the woman softened. "Come on, girl. I'll help you prepare the wash bucket. Remember, you're to scrub the stage. Try to stay out of the way as best you can."

Then she turned sharply on her heel and bustled away, motioning for Christine to follow as she went.

* * *

 _Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said good bye…_

Christine scrubbed the stage faster, hoping to drown out the echoing tones of the aria she knew so well with the harsh scrape of the horsehair brush. She was grateful, now, for her calloused hands. She had been scrubbing for an hour with no signs of blisters on her thin fingers. For a moment, she leaned back on her heels and stretched her arms, breathing deeply and resting her tired arms.

"You are horrible, simply horrible!" a familiar voice shouted, growing louder in tandem with the sound of stomping footsteps. "You are never pleased with what I sing, how I sing. I am tired of you! I am beginning to think I should begin inquiring after operas seeking a new _prima donna!"_

The owner of the voice, the diva la Carlotta, appeared suddenly, muttering to herself in Spanish. Her face was red with anger, and she waved her music wildly as she strode across the stage. Without fail, the pleading and placating tones of the new managers, Mssrs. Richard and Moncharmin followed soon after, citing her scores of admirers, the raving reviews she had recently received.

"No, no, no!" Carlotta shouted in response. "He is a monster! If this _thing_ is allowed to happen, _this_ thing will not happen!" With a grand gesture to her person, Carlotta continued off the stage. The managers followed in her wake exchanging worried glances. Just before they vanished behind the curtains, Mssr. Moncharmin tossed an angry glare over his shoulder.

"I hope you are pleased, Mssr. Chenet!" he shouted before turning on his heel and running after the _prima donna_.

Christine turned her head to see the person to cause such a commotion, and her breath caught in her throat. Standing at the edge of the stage, indeed looking particularly pleased with himself, was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

His hair was black and thick, cut fashionably short in the back with long waves falling over his forehead. His suit was well tailored, with crisp white pants and a high collared shirt, encased in a dark navy vest and jacket. It accentuated this tall frame nicely, closely fitted to his broad shoulders and tapering to his narrow waist. In one hand he held a fashionable cane, which he now was holding to his thin lips to mask his laughter.

Suddenly aware that her mouth was gaping like a fish and her arms were dangling loosely above her head, Christine turned back to her work, dipping her brush in the basin and resuming her scrubbing.

Amused with himself, Erik stood for a moment longer reliving Carlotta's outburst and congratulating himself on his most recent interaction with the diva. He would surely have her out of the opera within a month.

A rough, scraping sound wormed it's way into his consciousness and he frowned angrily. A glance around the stage revealed a young woman scrubbing the boards of the stage with a loud horsehair brush. Her hair was thick with curls and a lovely brown color, and her form was thin like a dancer. "You!" he called. He saw her freeze, still facing the ground. "Who told you to scrub my stage at this hour?"

It was his voice, her Angel. She held her breath, afraid to look up. Though she had not recognized his face at first, she now had no doubt that this was her Angel. Death had brought him back to her, but this time his face was perfect. And if he was making plans with the managers, having Carlotta sing for him, he was surely living a much happier life. She dared to smile, but then frowned in worry.

Would he recognize her in these clothes, in this position? Or would he look through her as if she did not exist?

"Come now, look at me girl," he said, sounding rather testy. "Tell me who told you to interrupt our session with your incessant scrubbing!"

Summoning her courage, trembling at the thinly veiled anger in his voice, she raised her face to his.

Erik raised an eyebrow at the girl's visage. Over the left side of her face she was wearing some sort of garish mask with sequins hanging from it by threads, most of them completely silver, with no trace of their previous color. "Take off that foolish mask," he said, trying to sound calm, but feeling wildly as if a trick was being played on him.

The right side of the girl's face frowned, as if she didn't understand, then her hands slowly raised to her face. She felt the edges of her mask, slipped a finger beneath it, then balked. She turned and gazed at him for a long moment, one hand covering the mask on her face, only her eye peeping through her fingers. Her eyes were a lovely aquamarine, framed by long, dark lashes. They filled with tears and she ran from the stage, abandoning her brush and bucket.

 _How utterly unusual_ , Erik thought to himself. He had not seen the girl in the opera before, but surely this girl herself knew that she wore a mask?

Shaking his head, he pushed her lovely eyes to the back of his mind and eyed the bucket and brush. Certainly the staff knew that any interruptions to his music could affect the success of the season. With determination, he walked towards the serving quarters with the intention of giving the head housekeeper, Mary, an earful regarding appropriate and inappropriate times to scrub the stage of the Opéra Populaire.

* * *

Christine sprinted all the way back to her room. _No_ , she thought, _no, this cannot be happening._ She once again passed a finger under the mask, hoping to feel the soft flesh of her cheek. Instead, her fingers met thick, ropy scars and a slippery, pussy substance. While she ran, she snatched a hand mirror from a ballerina, who called after her angrily but did not pursue.

When she was finally back in the room she'd woken up in and had latched the door, she sat heavily on the bed and with shaking hands held the mirror up before her face. _No, no, no, no_... she continued thinking as she raised her fingers to the clasps on the straps keeping her face behind the gaudy, horrible mask.

It fell away, and she cried out sharply, crying in earnest at the horror of her face.

The right side of her face remained perfect as it ever was, lovely as a porcelain doll. But the left side, she shuddered. The left side of her face looked as if it had been mauled by a wild animal. Thick scars cut across her face from forehead to chin. Even worse, it was riddled with newer scars and pus filled sores from the ill-fitting mask she was wearing.

With a loud cry, she threw the hand mirror at the wall and laid back in bed, pulling the sheets and blankets over her head and sobbing until she was exhausted and slipped into a deep sleep.

* * *

A soft knock sounded at the door, waking Christine from her nap. She kept her eyes closed for a few moments, hoping that when she opened them she would be back in the de Chagny home, still waiting for Death to finally take her. Instead, she saw the roughly hewn sheets and blankets cast all around her, as if she'd been tossing in her sleep. She sat up and looked around the dimly lit room, seeking a candle. Not finding one, she pushed herself to the feet and stumbled to the door to open it.

She found the head housekeeper there, who gasped in shock. "Mademoiselle," she whispered. "Your mask…" she started.

Christine's face fell, remembering her horrible discovery from the morning. She gestured for the lamp in the frightened woman's hand, and took it from her when she did not respond, staring at the garish mass of flesh before her. She found the horrid mask on the ground where she had cast it and buckled it into place.

When she returned to the doorway, the housekeeper released a breath and said, "Pardonne-moi, Mlle. I am simply unaccustomed to your face."

Christine sighed and nodded, lost in thought about the state of her face, then cast a questioning glance at the woman. What could she possibly want at this late hour?

"Mssr. Chenet told me what happened today on the stage," the woman continued. "You will need to finish your work at night, when the company is at sleep. I am sorry that you will need to work during these odd hours. He mentioned…" she paused, then sighed, "he mentioned that he should not like the face of a freak around in the daylight with patrons strolling about."

She cast an apologetic look at Christine, pitying her situation, but unwilling to stand up for her for fear of losing her position.

Christine fought tears as she imagined him, her Angel of Music, saying such words about her. Feeling dejected, she hung her head and walked to the supply closet to retrieve her bucket and brush, again resigning herself to the indignity of the life she was living. Still though, she thought, at least she was living. And her Angel of Music was happy, doing as he had always wanted to — orchestrating the works and performances of the great Opéra Populaire.

As she worked, Christine could not help but look out over the dark auditorium, lit only by the few candles she had been given and a brazier burning on the edge of the stage to stave off the cold of the night. She remembered how it had looked the night she had first sung upon it, the dark shadow she could barely make out in box five. How she had sung for him, and him alone...

She sat back on her heels suddenly, and opened her mouth to sing. An odd crackling voice came out at first, but grew clearer as she exercised it. She sang through scales as her maestro had taught her. The voice she had been given was clearly out of practice, but it was still the same voice she had once known.

 _Finally_ , she thought happily, _something in this world that will truly make me happy._ She returned to scrubbing, stopping every few minutes to continue warming up her voice. After an hour and a few long drinks of water, she walked out to the middle of the stage and faced the auditorium.

"No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy, no dreams within her heart but dreams of l…" her voice cracked on the final, delicate note. But still, the rest of the short verse had rung out clearly. She grinned widely. Perhaps nighttime cleaning was just the paradise she sought in this familiar but nightmarish world.


	3. Reminiscing

Christine fell easily into the routine of cleaning through the night. The head housekeeper, Mary, seemed relieved that she now had fewer reasons to interact with the girl with the hideous face and only spoke to her once or twice per week.

Though she was lonely, Christine loved her solitary nights. She continued to exercise her voice, pleased with the progress she was making on her own, and had even invested in a pair of inexpensive but well made ballet shoes. Each night after her work was finished, she went out to the stage and threw herself into the wonderful feeling of floating on the tips of her toes, stepping through the exercises wearing only her bloomers and a corset. Sometimes she could even hear Mme. Giry shouting to her from the wings.

 _Watch your form, Christine! Keep your toes pointed._

 _Straighten your back, ballerinas do not_ slump _across the stage, they fly._

She had even been so bold as to occasionally use the rehearsal room with long, ceiling high mirrors to ensure that her form was exactly right. Her nights were her paradise, her solace.

During the day, however, Christine found it difficult to sleep and spent the majority of her time wandering the many hidden passages of the theatre. Her favorite spot was the catwalk just above the stage, from which she could watch the rehearsals and listen to the wonderful, soaring music.

Trying to feel a connection to the past she remembered, she often watched her old friend Meg, feeling proud as she watched the graceful young woman catch the attention of the managers and earn a position in the cast rather than the chorus. She had discovered that Meg would be cast in the role of the mute page boy in _Il Muto,_ a role which she had once held, after finding her way accidentally into the manager's office. She watched carefully on the day of the posting and reveled in watching Meg discover her role, throwing her arms around her mother in tears of joy.

Christine cried with her that day, in joy, but also in sorrow. She longed to run to her friend and offer her congratulations, to pull her away to a quiet corner and share the secrets she now held close to her heart. Of her past, of who she had been, of what they had been to one another.

"Oi!" a sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. Christine was sitting on the catwalk, dangling her feet over the edge and clinging to a rope with each arm. She had been leaning far over, watching the smooth movement of the dancers below as they rehearsed the third act of _Il Muto_. She looked up to find Joseph Buquet leering at her. "Careful girl, or the phantom of the opera may find ye!" he said, taking a swig from a small metal container.

Letting a small grin play across her lips, Christine pulled herself to her feet. She knew that the phantom of the opera was, in this life, truly a myth. Wanting to avoid the stink and uncomfortable gaze of the drunken stage hand, she made her way to the edge of the catwalk, starting the long climb down to the main stage.

Buquet restored the stopper of the flask and slipped it into a pocket sewn to the inside of his shirt. He called after the disfigured girl, "And don't let me catch ye up here again, girl. Ya hear me? Next time ye'll not escape so easy!"

He stroked his scraggly beard, thinking of the changes he'd noticed in the girl over the past few months. Mme. Giry had brought the scrawny thing to the Opéra Populaire as a young child. The frigid young dance mistress would not tell him where she'd found the disfigured thing no matter how much he'd badgered her. He kept a close eye on the girl through the years, morbidly curious about her distorted visage. She was a girl of few, in fact, no words. She'd been mute since the day she was brought in, but he didn't need a girl to speak. In fact, the quieter the better. Though she was rather daft and disfigured, he had often leered at her body as it took a womanly shape. The catwalk was the perfect place to admire her form while she had scrubbed the stage on hands and knees.

Over the last months, though, her body had grown more lithe and her coloring had changed. Her one visible cheek was now perpetually a lovely shade of pink and her lips were red like roses. She no longer scrubbed the stage during the day, but lurked in the shadowy passages of the theater. He followed her in those shadows, led along the dimly lit paths by her light steps. He had watched her cry for some chorus girl — Giry's daughter — and laughed silently at her womanly foolishness.

 _Soon_ , he thought to himself. _Soon I'll catch her in one of those quiet corners and teach her a thing or two about men._ He reached for his flask again, his thoughts turning angrily to the dark-haired man standing at the apex of the stage, intensely watching and shouting direction to the ballerinas as they twirled and leaped across the stage.

He had often found his disfigured girl staring at the man from the shadows. Her plaintive sighs made it all too clear that she held a flame for the boy, admiring his good looks and dreaming of the size of his bank account, no doubt. He spat on the ground, thinking cruelly _A girl like 'er could never catch the eye of a fop such as 'im._

Taking one last, deep draw, he slipped the flask back into his pocket and firmly grasped a dangling rope, preparing himself to raise the heavy woodland props during the scene change.

* * *

Christine dropped lightly to her feet when she reached stage level, balancing for a moment on the balls of her feet, then hurrying off to a dark corner to keep out of the way of the busy backstage crew. _Il Muto_ was opening the next night, and the stage was buzzing with activity. She could hear the cast members warming their vocals in nearby rooms, and she could barely resist the temptation of joining her voice with hers. The anticipation of opening a new show was burning within all of them.

When she spotted an opening, she dashed out of her hiding place and ran to a small gap in the wall near the fly system, taking her into the dark paths hiding within the walls of the theatre. She made her way back to her room and pulled a small book from beneath her mattress.

Worried about forgetting her past, she had begun a diary detailing every moment she'd enjoyed with her father, with Meg, with her teacher and Angel. She carefully sharpened a small pencil and began again where she had left off.

 _I was to act in Il_ _Muto_ _as the silent page boy. The very first role I was assigned by my own right, and I admittedly enjoyed the angry looks Carlotta cast my way as we rehearsed. She resented having me as her love interest and would have much preferred even Gracielle, the one-eyed shoemaker, to me._

 _Despite her obvious ire, I could not help but love her while we were on stage. It was finally time for me to_ earn _my position in the limelight, rather than being placed there by fateful chance or planned espionage._

 _On opening night, when her voice croaked like a frog and my Angel's mocking laughter rose from the shadows, I felt my own anger rising. This man I once treasured as my muse and teacher was interrupting my performance, my chance to prove my worth as an actress. I wanted to shout to him, to plead with him to stop, but I maintained my composure, for who would hire an actress who breaks at such lewd provocations?_

 _But when the body fell, when Joseph Buquet appeared with a lasso around his broken neck, I had to run. Though I feared his face and his intensity, I had still loved my Angel as the friend I had known for so many years. This horrific act of heartlessness drove me to the brink of madness. My heart was broken, and my most treasured companion was lost._

Christine stopped, wiping an errant tear from the page. Her memories of this time often awakened intense and sometimes unwanted emotion, but this particular moment had pushed her to tears. The memory of the crushing despair of that night still haunted her dreams.

She thought of the man back on the stage, his perfect face shouting commands at the singers, the dancers, and the orchestra. He was not her Angel. He never could be. He was handsome, but repulsively rude. Her Angel had been kind and gentle.

A knock came at her door, and she quickly tucked the book back into its hiding place, stowing the pencil and sharpening knife on one of the barren shelves built into the wall. She wiped at her tears, cringing as she felt the dry, rough fabric of her mask. Her wretched face was a thing to which she may never grow accustomed.

She pulled open the door to find Mary there. Her mousy brown hair was in a frizzier mess than usual, and her eyes had a gleam of insanity about them. "Girl," she stated loudly, "you are needed in the dressing rooms."

Christine felt her heart sink. Had she been caught out dancing at night? Was she being taken to Mme. Giry to be fired? She nodded her head worriedly, and followed the disheveled woman as she nearly ran down the hall.

"You're needed to step in as the seamstress' assistant," Mary said breathlessly as they ran, "the foolish girl has taken ill and you are the last person on staff without duties to perform."

Relieved, Christine kept up pace, now thinking eagerly of the job she was about to do. Granted, she would likely just hold the pin cushion for the seamstress, but it was a nice break from the monotony of scrubbing, sweeping, and wiping.

When they reached the door to the dressing rooms, Mary turned on her and cast a hard eye at her. "Now, don't be putting on airs thinking you're now better than your position. If there were anyone else, we would take them. Keep your head down. Wouldn't want any more incidents like the one that pushed you to night work in the first place, would we?"

With that, the housekeeper pushed her into the room and bustled off to attend to the next emergency.

Before her was an array of beautiful chaos. In one corner of the room, she saw a massive pile of fabrics ranging from purest white to the darkest forest green, to a decadent black velvet. The room positively dazzled with light from the sconces playing in the mirrors, dripping red wax over the sides as if they had not been scraped in a while. She made a mental note to come to the costume shop that evening and clear them before the show the next day.

In the middle of the room, standing on a short stool, was the _prima donna_ herself, preening and murmuring delightedly over the beautiful silk and lace dress that had been made for her role as Comtesse.

"You have made it too small," the diva said to the seamstress, shifting uncomfortably in the tight corset, "You do this with all of my costumes. Do you not know how to properly sew a garment?"

The seamstress, standing behind Carlotta and tearing out seams glared at her back and formed angry words silently with her mouth _'Do you not know how to stop eating chocolates?'_ Christine carefully coughed, notifying the pair of her presence. Both looked at her, their expressions morphing to those of shock and, perhaps, a bit of fear.

"You are all that's left in the whole opera?" the seamstress inquired. Christine nodded, a blush of shame flooding her face. She had known her life would be harder when she discovered her deformity, but had not anticipated the fear, the stunned silences that followed everywhere she showed her face, even her masked face. It was no wonder her dear teacher had hidden himself away from the world.

The woman sized her up for a moment, then sighed and motioned for Christine to come forward. "Now, I'm Lavinia. I want you do as I say, when I say it, no more or no less. Agreed?"

Christine nodded again, looking at her feet, afraid of what truths might lurk in Lavinia's sharp green eyes.

"All right," she said, sighing again, sounding resigned. "What's your name then?"

Carlotta interrupted her with a laugh, "Are you daft? The girl hasn't spoken a word since she was brought to the opera ten years ago. She's a mute!"

Christine froze. She thought back to all her time at the opera in the last few months, the hours of practicing, singing and dancing, the hours of cleaning and scrubbing. She had not spoken a word to any person. But, she knew that in this new life she was not mute. How could she sing if she was mute?

Carlotta's laugh broke her reverie, "See, I told you. They say her vocal chords were burned with the same acid that created her horrid face."

Christine looked up angrily at Carlotta. "I am not mute." she said, her voice strong and full.

Both women stared at her, their jaws hanging agape. Christine moved a step forward, took a deep breath, and looked Lavinia fiercely in the eyes, "My name is Christine. Now, what is it you need me to do?"

In a flash, Lavinia was back to business, directing Christine to stand here, place a pin there, or rip this seam. Carlotta watched it all with a dispassionate look in her eyes, but her brain was racing. The young woman's voice was lovely and lilting. She could hear the music in it, hidden behind that hideous face.

She shuddered, wincing and mewling in pain as a pin found its way into her side. "Hold still and I won't stick you again," Lavinia said in a prickly tone.

Carlotta watched the masked girl flit from place to place, fulfilling each request quickly and gracefully. She moved like a dancer, spending barely a moment on either foot unless absolutely necessary. A jealousy rose unexpectedly from within her. Jealousy of this girl's grace, of her lovely, unburdened voice.

When the final panels were pinned in place and Carlotta could finally breathe again, she let out a huff. "Finally, the dress is acceptable. I advise you to make the next one properly the first time!" She held out her arms as the seamstress began to undo the many buttons down the back.

While she was dressed, she noticed Christine stealing longing glances at the magnificent gown. Folding it gently over her arm, the girl caressed the intricate lace bodice, walking to a nearby costume rack to carefully hang it.

"You're done. It will be ready by tomorrow," Lavinia gestured to the door, hoping Carlotta would vacate the room as quickly as possible.

"Thank you," she said in a poisonously sweet voice. She wandered over to Christine, who was still standing near the rack of costumes, and gestured to the gown. "Do you like it?"

Christine nodded, then cleared her throat and said, "Yes, it's beautiful."

Carlotta grinned widely, "It is too bad you will never get the chance to wear something so beautiful. Considering the horror of your face, the best you may hope for is a whore's gown," she said with a piquant laugh, turning smartly on her heel and walking away.

Christine felt her face flush again, this time with anger, with a rage like she'd never felt before. She wanted to curl her hands into claws and tear at the horrid woman's face. She imagined herself wrapping a lasso around Carlotta's thick neck and tossing her over the side of the catwalk.

The air left her lungs in a soft gasp. What had she become, to harbor such thoughts? To dream of doing exactly what her Angel of Music had done to break her trust and her heart in one solid blow?

She sank to her knees, sobbing. Her soul was in terrible jeopardy, she could feel it. Resentment burned in her heart for the people of the opera who stared at her openly, or worse, glanced at her then hid their faces behind their hands, their eyes laughing at her expense.

A hand touched her shoulder gently, "Don't listen to that woman. She's nasty as they come," Lavinia said kindly. "You might yet wear such grand gowns!"

Christine looked at her sharply, wanting to bask in her compassion, hold it close to her heart, but could only muster a hissing, "Might I?" while gesturing wildly at her face.

She ran all the way back to her room, collapsing on her bed in a heap of mournful tears, moaning to herself, "Who am I?"


	4. Return

_The days I spent away from the opera with Raoul were the sweetest of my life. He was kind and attentive to my needs, carefully guiding me through the viper pit of the upper class. Whenever I was left alone, I could see him always looking back at me, ensuring that I was safe and comfortable in this new world._

 _He opened his home to me, offering me anything I could possibly desire. He often begged me to let him take me away from Paris to escape the horrors I had endured in the vaults below the theatre. I could not bring myself to leave the city, though. It had been my home for ten years, and as much as I feared the man who waited in the opera, I loved this city where lights shone through the deepest night._

 _Whenever I would wake from my frequent night terrors, he would rush to my side, holding me and murmuring sweet nothings until I could breathe again. In those days I could do nothing but fear what I had seen._

 _After a few short weeks, though, I found myself growing bored of living among the titled elite. Each day I woke and was greeted by my chaperone, who would take me down to breakfast and tea. We would entertain ladies of the recently revived noblesse, discussing the party of the night before, who had danced with whom, and who was surely courting by now._

 _I tried to be polite, but I often found myself drifting back to the opera. I thought of that night, of pulling the mask away from the face of my treasured teacher. His disfigured face had terrified me, but more terrible was the sight of his rage. His face, contorted with fury, haunted me in my days as well as my nights._

 _Now my nights were filled with parties where lovely, impeccably dressed people spoke of nothing at all. All of them were there either to find a life mate or watch the young people do so. I could not help but be determinedly bored by the incessant babble of my chaperones. Raoul was the only thing keeping me from returning to the opera and the life I had known for so long._

 _Despite my fear of him, I soon longed to hear my teacher's voice again. To speak with him, to ask him to tell me a story, or to sing with me._

 _But this would never happen again, for when I returned to the opera, it was to trap the thing that I realize now was most precious to me, my Angel of Music._

* * *

The lights of the tavern Hérétique Mystique shone brightly, despite the lateness of the hour, casting light onto the cobbled street. The men and women within could be heard shouting drunkenly and joining their voices in a bawdy tune. John Bernard stood outside, wringing his hands fearfully. He knew his master was inside but feared his wrath. The last time he had tried to interrupted Mssr. Chenet while deep in his cups, he had been laughed out of the tavern with his ears ringing from the hard clap they'd received.

Sighing, John pulled open the door hearing the last bit of the most recent tune.

 _Oh daughter, haven't I taught you to forgive and forget  
Even if all this is true, still you needn't fret  
Your father may be father to all the boys in town, still  
He's not the one who sired you, so marry who you will!_

At this, the crowd dissolved into raucous laughter, raising their glasses and drinking deeply. John searched the crowd, hoping not to find his master, already forming an excuse as to why he had to retrieve the manuscript in the morning rather than during the night. But his master was not one to accept excuses.

John spotted him, standing near the bar with a lovely young woman hanging on his arm. A blush creeped into his cheeks. The woman was scantily clad, with her sleeves hanging well below her shoulders and her bosom pushed high into the air by the corset cinched tightly around her waist. Her curly brown hair had fallen loose and was brushing the tops of her flushed breasts. Mssr. Chenet was leaning down to whisper in her ear when he noticed John standing nearby, shifting from one foot to another uncomfortably.

"John!" he shouted while gesturing towards the boy, slopping mead down the front of the young woman's dress. "Come, join us! This lovely girl was just telling me of her friend, a scrawny thing who you may yet enjoy." He winked at his young assistant and gestured again for him to join them.

John took a tentative step towards the pair, tempted by the offer to join in the fun. However, he remembered his duty and straightened.

"Sir, may I speak with you outside?" he inquired, raising his voice to be heard above the din of the tavern.

Mssr. Chenet's brow furrowed, "I'd rather not just now, John." With the hand he had around her waist, he pulled the girl closer to him and whispered something in her ear. She glanced at John with gleaming eyes and tittered prettily.

John felt his face flush, and said more forcefully, "Sir, please, it's urgent."

Erik eyed the young boy, remembering the last time he'd come to find him at the tavern. He'd sent the boy away with a blotchy, red face and had no doubt embarrassed his upright sensibilities with the lewd limericks they'd shouted after him.

Yet here he was again, his spine straight as an iron rod and a determined look in his eyes.

Sighing, Erik dropped a kiss on the cheek of the sweet young girl on his arm. "Stay here, love. I'll be back after finishing my business with my assistant. In the mean time, you..." he leaned close and whispered in her ear again. She gave a squeal and wriggled away from him, looking back at the young, rigid boy with an amused gleam in her eyes.

"Lead the way, then," Erik said, motioning to the door.

Relieved, John forged a path to the door, careful to avoid the pools of mead gathering on the warped floor and the drunken patrons weaving unpredictably through the crowd. When they had made it out the front door, Mssr. Chenet pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and deftly lit one, deeply inhaling then releasing the smoke with a sigh of pleasure.

"Women, my young friend," he sighed, blowing out a puff of smoke and looking at the midnight black sky, "women are the sweetest pleasure in life."

John raised an eyebrow at the poetic words. His master must truly be deep in his cups to speak of women in such a way. More often he'd heard the man speak of them as if they were poison rather than sugar. "Yes, sir," he said in an unsure tone.

Then, not wanting to waste another moment, "Sir, I came here tonight to tell you that I was unable to retrieve the manuscript you require."

Erik turned his eyes away from the night sky to look at the boy. The rigidness had left his spine, and he was now looking at his shoes shamefully. His hands hung loose at the sides of his body, and he looked nearly ready to collapse.

"Were you unable to find the correct key?" Erik asked tightly. He felt his ire growing. He needed that manuscript immediately in the morning. His work would be terribly postponed by this failure.

"It's.. I.." the boy stuttered, then took a deep breath and blurted, "Sir, I was chased away by the opera ghost."

Erik was not sure whether to shout at the boy for his foolishness or laugh at the the idea of an opera ghost.

"An opera ghost, you say? And, pray tell, how could a being such as a ghost prevent you from retrieving the papers from my office? It certainly did not have corporeal form?" he said, trying to sound bemused.

"No, sir. It did not physically prevent me from retrieving the papers, per say," John stopped, frowning as he searched for the right words. "I heard it moaning. It grew louder as I approached your office, then stopped when I reached your door. As if it knew I was there! I tried to open the door, but the key would not turn in the lock. I thought I had the wrong key, so I tried another, but all of them failed. I tried the key I was sure would work again, and…" He stopped, biting his lip, unsure whether to proceed.

Erik sighed, "Come on, out with it."

"It pulled open the door, sir! It rushed me and told me to run! I did not stop argue with such a being. Please, sir, I am sorry. I will retrieve the papers for you in the morning," Jon finished, looking at his feet.

"Foolish boy," he said, laying a heavy hand on John's shoulder. He took another deep pull on his cigarette, then tossed it to the ground and extinguished it with a sharp twist of his foot. "Go home, then. I will retrieve the manuscript myself."

John looked up at him, ready to protest, but then saw the anger brewing behind Mssr. Chenet's eyes that betrayed his calm demeanor.

"Yes, sir," he said finally. "Be careful."

Erik scoffed, waving the boy off and starting towards the Opéra Populaire.

* * *

Christine grinned to herself, remembering the way the thin boy had run terrified from her when she had burst from Mssr. Chenet's office. She had been curious about what would be playing after _Il Muto_ and was hoping to find some clues buried in his desk drawers. She was disappointed to see that the upcoming show was a silly, modern piece and was bemoaning the idea of the great Opéra Populaire touting such drivel.

When she heard the footsteps approaching, she had panicked. If she was found sneaking into the office of one of the most prominent patrons of the opera she would surely be sacked. Where would she be then, with her horrible face haunting her every step?

She rushed to the door, pulling the cloak hanging from it over her head, and gripped the handle tightly to prevent entry to the room. The person tried a key, but it would not move in the lock. She heard a sigh from outside the door and listened as he rotated through five other keys with increasing urgency.

"I know this is the one," the boy had muttered to himself, and she let the lock click in place. Then she pulled the door open and rushed the boy, cackling and shouting in a horrible voice for him to run. And run he had.

Once she was certain he had gone, she let out a small chuckle, thinking of how the phantom had scared the young ballerinas in similar ways during her previous life.

She turned her thoughts once again to her present task. She scraped the final bits of wax off of the last sconce in the dressing room, and carefully placed it in her bucket. After depositing it with the rest of the wax to be reused, she headed towards the stage. Finally, it was time again for her to lose herself in music.

* * *

Erik strode into the opera house purposefully. The long walk from the tavern had sobered him considerably, and his anger towards his young assistant had grown. _Opera ghosts,_ he thought to himself with a grimace, _what an absurd notion._

He retrieved the manuscript from his office, thumbing carefully through the pages to ensure that they were in order. He flipped to the first page, reverently running his fingers over the words inscribed there: _Don Juan._

Pride bubbled in his chest as he thought of the grand season opening this work would bring to the opera. He knew the piece was not _en vogue_ , but it was truly his masterpiece. It captured the beauty and yet the ugliness of pure, unadulterated lust, an emotion which he had known all too well in his life.

He tucked the piece carefully under his arm and made his way toward the rear exit of the building, hoping to catch a cab from there. As he walked through the halls, a hauntingly beautiful voice rang out clearly from the stage, then stopped. He paused, thinking of the opera ghost that John was sure had attacked him. After standing for a moment in silence, he shook is head and started forward again.

Then, as if from a dream, the words of his beautiful Aminta rang out, caressing his ears with their purity.

 _No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy, no dreams within her heart but dreams of love._

The voice held the final note, drawing out its loveliness. He slowly walked towards the source of the sound, unable to resist the pull of that voice, mesmerized.

When he reached the stage, he saw a figure cast in shadows facing out towards the theatre. It looked like a woman, but the voice he heard could not possibly belong to an earthly being. He had to join her.

* * *

Christine closed her eyes, in her mind hearing the phantom singing to her. She wrapped her arms around herself, imagining him behind her, holding her as he seduced her with his song.

 _What warm unspoken secrets will we learn... beyond the point of no return?_

She opened her mouth to reply, pouring her heart into the words. In her mind, she was on the stage with him on the last night she had ever seen him. He was standing behind her, hovering on the edge of sanity as she sang of their bodies entwining.

 _No second thoughts, I've decided, decided_.

They joined in singing together, their voices blending seamlessly, teasing and playing with one another in sultry passion. His arms encircled her, pulling her close causing her heart to race wildly in her chest. She felt a ferocious heat burn a path from where his lips hovered mere inches from her ear to the hot core or her body.

 _The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn. We've passed the point of no return._

Christine could nearly hear the orchestra swelling, holding the suspenseful chords that marked the end of the song. She continued, her heart throbbing as she thought of her lost opportunity, her lost love.

 _Say you'll share with me one love one lifetime  
Lead me save me from my solitude  
Say you'll want me with you here beside you_

 _Anywhere you go let me go too  
Love me, that's all I ask of you_

Tears ran freely down Christine's cheeks pooling behind her mask as she sang the Phantom's words. She felt the arms tighten around her and stilled. She had not been imagining that someone was singing with her.

Erik felt the girl freeze in his arms. The melody she'd sung after their duet had finished had wrenched his heart in a way he had not expected. He did not know how she knew _The Point of No Return_ and at this point he little cared to find out. What he wanted was for her to continue singing for him, forever. The verses she had added to the song moved him in a way he never thought to be moved again in his lifetime. Her voice had resonated with a sorrow like he had never heard before. He had hugged her close, wanting to erase the pain from that sweet voice falling from her lips.

Christine wrenched herself out of Mssr. Chenet's grasp. She knew it was him, he was the only person in the world who could possibly own that voice. As she pulled away, her ankle twisted and she cried out in pain, losing her balance and teetering towards the black depths of the orchestra pit. Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her away from the edge.

She wriggled in his grasp, trying to free her arms from where they were pinned at her sides.

"Who are you?" he whispered, raising a hand to smooth the tears from her right cheek while keeping her arms pinned with the other. She wanted to shrink away from his touch, but when she looked at him she could only imagine that it was _her_ phantom, her _Erik_ , gently touching her face, wrapping a stray curl around his finger. She tried to shake the alien feeling that overcame her when she thought of his name instead of thinking of him as her Angel, teacher, or phantom. It made him suddenly far more real.

She felt his hand move to the top of her head, and she realized he was about to release the straps securing her mask.

"Please, Mssr., please no!" she cried, wriggling in his arms.

His eyes were shadowed and unfocused, as if he were in a trance. She felt one strap loosen, then another, until the mask fell away revealing her. He took in her wretched visage silently. "Who could have thought," he said softly, again stroking her rosy, unmarred cheek, "that such a beautiful voice could be trapped behind this face of yours."

She held her breath, sure that at any moment he would drop her, would look at her with revulsion and leave her in a broken heap. But the moment never came. He continued to look deeply into her eyes, holding her close.

"Sing for me," he breathed."Sing only for me."

She nodded, unable to do anything else. Her heart had migrated to her throat and she was only conscious of the way his arm felt wrapped around her body, the way his eyes burned with intensity as if he were reading her very soul.

He lowered his face to hers and placed a hot, dry kiss on her lips, as if to seal the deal they had made, then released her. She could barely stand after he released her, her body thrumming with anticipation.

"Go to bed," he said, retrieving her mask and placing it in her shaking hands. "Tomorrow you begin a new life."


	5. At a Distance

Morning light streamed through the high windows in the servants' quarters of the theatre when Christine emerged from her room. The unmarred half of her face bore a silly grin, and her eyes were glazed over, lost in thought.

People flowed around her as if she were a boulder in a stream. The theatre was buzzing with anticipation for another opening night, and everyone had an urgent job to do. Ballerinas tittered as they helped each other into their costumes, gossiping and anxiously discussing the upcoming performance. Stagehands shouted directions to one another, tossing one prop or another over the crowd. Lead performers warmed up in their dressing rooms, their voices adding a melodic chorus to the chaotic noise.

To Christine, the activity around her was simply a blur of bright colors. She wandered towards the stage and climbed up to sit onto the catwalk, lost in a dream of a glorious future with him, the man she was hoping could be to her what she had never been able to be for her phantom, her Erik.

"Something's got you rather pleased today," a voice, dripping with false sweetness, spoke to her from the shadows. She turned to see Joseph Buquet emerge, looking like he'd slept the night under a bridge. He reached for his flask and took a long pull.

She frowned at him, thinking it was rather early in the morning to be drinking. He took a few steps towards her, closing the gap between them. She leaned as far away from him as she could without falling, wanting to avoid the stink that followed the man everywhere.

He boldly reached out and stroked her hair. "So lovely," he murmured, rubbing a curl between his fingers.

Christine jumped deftly to her feet, glaring at him. "Oh, aye," Joseph said sharply. "The wee bird is ready to fly at the slightest touch." She backed away from him, but he matched her every step, soon closing the gap between them and cornering her against a railing.

He pressed himself close to her and whispered in her ear, "Wouldn't you like to find out what I've got for ye, wee birdie?"

She balked and pushed him hard. He stumbled back a step, wobbling unsteadily on his feet. She took the opportunity to run from him and swiftly descended the ladder to the stage, her eyes turned upward to make sure he would not pursue her. As she reached the bottom, she saw his face appear and heard a low chuckle rumble out of him. "Ye can't run forever, girl."

With her heart racing, Christine ran out to the foyer of the theatre to put as much distance between herself and the stagehand as she could. Mssr. Buquet had never been so bold, and she wrung her hands wondering what he might do the next time he caught her alone.

"No, no that simply will not do," the voice of Mssr. Richard rang out in the foyer. "We are in this business to make money, but we are hemorrhaging it with the demands Mssr. Chenet is putting forth for costumes and scenery. Giving away free seats to the poor will only further the problem."

Christine quickly hid away behind a tall flowering plant, hoping she had not been seen.

"Yes, but we can advertise our charitable adventures," Mssr. Moncharmin's voice chimed in heatedly. "Patrons may be more inclined to come to the opera house of charitable gentlemen rather than money grabbing fools."

The two emerged from the marble staircase, striding across the polished floors with purpose. Mssr. Richard scoffed at Moncharmin's argument, and said coolly, "We'd be better off putting costumed staff in those seats than some poor orphans. People come to our theatre to experience the grandeur, not to be reminded of the plights of the city."

Mssr. Moncharmin opened his mouth to argue, but the two were interrupted by the doors on the far side of the foyer slamming open. Erik Chenet emerged through them, and Christine's heart jumped to her throat. He was disheveled, still wearing his clothes from the previous night. His hair stuck up oddly on one side, and his cheek was stained with lines of ink as if he'd fallen asleep on a letter he was writing.

He bowed to the managers, and inquired after Mme. Giry, saying that he hoped to speak with her.

Mssr. Moncharmin barked a laugh, responding that he'd be lucky to exchange one word with the woman today. The last he'd seen her, she'd been herding a group of student ballerinas out of the wings while coordinating the hairstyles of the performing dancers and helping to calm her daughter's nerves.

Erik's eyes glinted determinedly, and he asked again where he could find her. Seeing that Erik would not drop the subject, Mssr. Richard relented, saying he could likely find her in the costume room helping her girls.

Erik nodded and bowed his head in thanks, taking off to find his quarry.

Christine was curious. She wondered why he was so determined to find Mme. Giry. Was it something to do with her? She followed close on his heels, careful to stay in the shadows until she could disappear into the walls of the theatre. She was tempted to run to him to ask him of his plan, to ask whether he was planning to take her away, but restrained herself, hoping his intent would soon become clear.

* * *

Erik's long strides soon brought him to the costume room. The bustling people backstage had all made a path for him, his powerful presence subduing the rampant opening night excitement. Mme. Giry was not in the costume department, but they had directed him to Meg's dressing room, as the woman had been leading her pale daughter that way a few minutes prior to his appearance.

When he reached the door to the room, he paused. Maybe he did not need to ask permission to take the girl away. As far as he knew, and as far as his assistant John had known, the girl had been at the theatre for nearly a decade without a single person to call friend or mentor. However, John was sure the girl had been kept at the theatre on the charity of Mme. Giry, fighting for her to keep her position as housekeepers changed over the years.

Reaffirming his resolve, he gave the door three distinct knocks.

Mme. Giry opened the door, her face pinched in annoyance. When she saw that it was Mssr. Chenet, she schooled her features into cool indifference, "May I help you, Mssr. Chenet?"

"Yes, I believe you can. May I take a moment of your time?"

* * *

Christine was out of breath by the time she reached Meg's dressing room, the same one she had occupied when she was performing. She slipped into the hallway behind the mirror and felt a wave of deja vu flow over her. In a moment, she was back in her old world, blindly following her phantom to the depths of the theatre, mesmerized by his voice.

That same voice shook her out of her fantasy as it said, "What do you know of the masked girl?" Christine's heart skipped a beat — he was indeed here to ask about her.

"Christine Daaé?" Meg inquired immediately. She opened her mouth to say more, but her mother silenced her with a sharp look.

"What is it you want with Mlle. Daaé?" Mme. Giry asked narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the disheveled man.

Erik paused. He had been consumed with his music the night before, inspired by the girl's voice. With her sweet song still ringing in his ears, he had completed Don Juan in one frantic sitting. After completing the finale, he had fallen asleep on the manuscript and dreamed of her.

She had been singing Aminta's part to him again. This time, though, they were on the stage of the opera before an audience. When she'd turned her face to his, there had been no mask. Her face was perfect, both her cheeks smooth and flushed with a lovely shade of pink, without a scar or pus-filled sore in sight.

"Well?" Mme. Giry prodded him, clearly losing her patience.

"My housekeeper," he finally blurted. He steadied himself and continued on in a half-bored tone, "She has decided to get married and leave the household. I have promoted one of my other staff to the position, but am now sorely in need of a maid. I thought she'd do."

Mme. Giry's face relaxed somewhat, but she was not entirely convinced. "Do you recall, Mssr., that you once requested that Mlle. Daaé be hidden away during the day so as not to offend patrons with her face?

He resisted the urge to grimace. That day he'd been so focused on his hatred towards their _prima donna_ that he'd taken the ripe opportunity to snap at anything that distracted him. "Yes, well, the position is relegated mostly to the top floors of my home, where she is unlikely to be seen."

Mme. Giry raised a finger to her lips and studied Mssr. Chenet for a moment. Though he very much acted the part of a man shopping for new household staff, his appearance betrayed the chaos in his mind. Resisting the urge to straighten his cravat, she turned her back to him, eyeing the mirror behind her.

Christine took a few silent steps away from the glass, wondering just how much Mme. Giry knew of the hidden paths in the theatre. When the woman tucked a stray hair back into her meticulous bun and turned to face Mssr. Chenet, she released her breath in a quiet hiss. She stepped close to the mirror again, hoping beyond hope that he was not really here to hire her as a maid.

"All right, Mssr. I will believe that you want her as your maid. If I find that this is not your intention with her, I will not hesitate to bring her back to the theatre," she said firmly, eyeing him coldly. "Mlle. Daaé will earn her keep honestly. I will allow no man to purchase her body."

Mssr. Chenet looked somewhat taken aback at this idea, "Of course not. Has this sort of thing been proposed to you before?"

Mme. Giry relaxed somewhat and nodded in the affirmative with a sigh. Meg grabbed her mother's hand and looked at Mssr. Chenet, "We just want to make sure she's taken care of, you see. Mother was the one to find her all those years ago."

"Yes," Mme. Giry said, sighing again, and gesturing for Mssr. Chenet to sit. "If you are truly seeking Mlle. Daaé as an employee, there are a few things I must tell you before I allow you to ask her."

Erik nodded, taking a seat, and leaned forward listening intently.

"First, the girl is mute. Your staff will need to accommodate this and assist her accordingly with her work," Mme. Giry paused, noting the odd look that passed over Mssr. Chenet's face after hearing about this disability. He nodded again, gesturing for her to go on.

"You must also be aware," she squeezed Meg's hand and her eyes became cloudy, "of how we found her."

* * *

The rehearsal had run late that night. The _prima_ _donna_ of that time, Bellana Nostoro, had been more insufferable than Carlotta by half, insisting that she could do better, the dancers could do better, even daring to say that the conductor himself could do better.

She was a young woman, and the position had clearly gone to her head. The night ended in frustrated tears, angry shouts, and several torn costumes.

Mme. Antoinette Giry, as the new ballet instructor, was subsequently in a foul mood by the time she left the theatre. She had also brought her young daughter that evening, hoping to teach her more of her life at the theatre. Normally nights at the opera excited the young Meg, but this one had been unbearably long and she was exhausted.

They walked hand in hand towards their home a few blocks from the opera, but Antoinette could not keep a quick pace with Meg dragging her heels and whimpering the whole way. She finally relented and picked the girl up, feeling suddenly sad at how heavy her little girl now was.

While Meg's head lolled sleepily against her shoulder. Antoinette walked briskly, keeping her eyes on the dark alleys along the route. She listened carefully as she passed each one, ready to run at the first sign of danger.

In the alley one block from her home, she heard a sound like a child crying and paused. Meg's little head twisted towards the noise, "Who's that, momma?" she'd asked sleepily.

Antoinette shifted Meg to her other hip and whispered, "Shh, little one."

"Who is there?" she called loudly down the alley. The crying stopped for a moment, then a pitiful whimper rang out. Though every instinct told her to run to the noise, Antoinette paused. She had heard of people being lured into alleys by young children only to be assaulted by their parents. She could not risk such a thing with Meg at her side.

Standing taller and gripping Meg more tightly, she called out, "Please, if you need help, come out to the street where I can see you."

The alley echoed with the sound of something clattering to the ground, then slow, shuffling footsteps as a figure appeared out of the darkness.

The girl was tiny, smaller even than Meg. She was wearing a white travel dress, and her bonnet was tilted askew on her head. Her curly hair made a frizzy halo around her head, and her face was stained with tears. At first it seemed that the girl was covered in a paint of some sort, but Antoinette realized in horror that the girl was covered in blood. Her face and dress were heavily stained, her pale arms a striking contrast to the splatters scattered across them.

Carefully lowering Meg to stand on the ground, Antoinette crouched and reached a hand out to the girl. With a sob, the tiny girl ran to her, throwing her arms around her neck. She lifted her onto one of her hips, and reached out to Meg to take her hand.

"Come, Meg. We must find your father."

Meg, whose eyes were wide with fear, complied without hesitation, running to keep up with her mother's long strides.

Mssr. Gerard Giry had lamps burning in the windows of their small home, anxiously awaiting his girls' return from the opera. When he saw them approaching, the young girl wrapped tightly around his wife's midsection and his daughter running frantically at her side, he ran out into the lawn, asking what had happened.

Antoinette silenced him with a kiss and continued inside, giving the young girl on her hip a significant glance. He followed close on her heels, now seeing the blood covering the girl's face and soaking through her dress. Without another word, he disappeared into the bedroom, reappearing with a small medical bag in his hand. He had been a medic in the army and knew that with this much blood, they must work quickly or chance losing their young patient.

He quietly but firmly instructed his daughter to go upstairs and start tearing up old sheets to use as bandages. He warned her to stay upstairs until he or her mother retrieved her.

"Is she going to be okay, papa?" Meg asked fearfully.

He put a hand on her small face and urged her again to go upstairs, saying, "I will do what I can."

With their daughter safely out of the way, Gerard and Antoinette went to work. She laid the girl out on the kitchen table, then stroked her hair and distracted her as her husband carefully cut the girl out of her clothes. He cautiously wiped away the blood on her chest keeping an eye out for any wounds that continued to bleed. Not finding any, he moved to her arms and neck. Still he found nothing.

He checked her legs, but they too were completely unscathed. Then he moved to her face and nearly dropped the cloth in shock. Though one side of the girl's face was lovely, the other half was covered in scars, deformed by the thick layers tissue. He ignored it for the moment, moving to her scalp, sure to find some sort of laceration there.

Antoinette watched as her husband searched the young girl for any sign of injury. When he pulled away with a puzzled look on his face, she knew something was amiss. He looked at her and said, "There's nothing wrong with her. She's perfectly fine. Please, Antoinette, give her a bath and take her to bed."

He turned away quickly stowing his supplies back in his bag and slipping into his coat. When he placed his hat on his head and lit a lamp, Antoinette ran to him and asked, "Where are you going?"

"The blood on that girl came from someone," he had said gruffly. "There may be an innocent person out there in need of help. I cannot sit idly by while a person dies."

Antoinette cupped his face gently, feeling her heart burst with love for this selfless man. "Be careful," she whispered urgently. "I found her in the alley one block away, towards the theatre."

Gerard nodded and placed a firm kiss on her lips, holding her for an extra moment, before turning on his heel and heading out into the night.

* * *

"When he returned home, he could barely stand from shock," Mme. Giry intoned, lost in her memories. "He had found three men dead in the alley where we had found the girl. It looked very much like she had been attacked. One of the men," she paused, putting a hand over his mouth. "He'd had his genitals cut clean off, likely by the same knife Mssr. Giry had found buried in the neck of the other. The third man had died of a gunshot wound to the heart — the gun was found near the entrance to the alley."

"We think," Mme. Giry continued, visibly bolstering herself, "that the girl may have been abducted. She then defended herself by any means available to her." The woman hunched uncharacteristically, and Meg wrapped an arm around her waist.

Erik did not know how to respond. He had known, of course, that such horrific acts could happen in such a large city. He had never heard of a story such as this, though, wherein the victim defended herself so thoroughly and intentionally.

"Now," Mme. Giry said, straightening and pulling herself from Meg's embrace with a soft squeeze on her arm. "We have seen no inclination towards any further violence from Mlle. Daaé since the time we found her. Mssr. Giry and I decided to bring her to the opera instead of taking her into our home due to the violent nature of the deaths, but she has proven herself to be kind and hardworking over her many years of work here. I feel it is my duty to inform you of this event only for you, as her future employer, to be fully aware of her past so you may act appropriately should anything in your home trigger unpleasant memories."

Erik nodded to her, not trusting himself to speak. He thought of the atrocities the young woman who so captivated him had suffered and felt a wild urge to shelter her from her own past.

Seeing that Mssr. Chenet had accepted the young woman's story without revulsion or fear, she nodded and dug in her satchel for a moment, pulling from it a set of papers bound in twine. She handed them to him, and he accepted them, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Her papers, we found them in a satchel she left in the alley. Included with them was some sheet music signed with the name Gustave Daaé. We think he was her father. Should she accept your offer, she should have them with her," Mme. Giry sat and folded her hands in her lap, looking at Mssr. Chenet expectantly.

"Thank you," he said gruffly, tucking the papers away in a pocket, trying his best to ignore the rust colored stains that spread across the corner of the bundle. "If it is acceptable to you, I will seek her out and make my intentions known."

Meg jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around the man, whispering in his ear, "Thank you for accepting Christine's face and her past. Though I have not gotten to know her well, I do think she is a good person."

Erik nodded and patted the excitable girl's back. When she withdrew, he schooled his features and said with a slight grin, "Now, Serafimo, you must prepare for the opera!"


	6. All that Was, Is

"John!" Erik shouted from his office.

His young apprentice appeared in an instant, "Yes, sir?" He had never seen Mssr. Chenet in such a rage before. Several of the chairs in his office had been knocked to their sides and a pile of shattered glass lay at his feet, glinting in the candlelight.

"I would like another glass and more wine if you please." John shivered at his master's tone. His voice had come out smooth as silk, but the rage burning in his eyes gave the words a stinging edge. John nodded and rushed out of the room, careful to close the door behind himself.

Inside the room, Erik stewed in fury. He had searched the theatre top to bottom, but Christine Daaé was nowhere to be found. When guests started to fill the opera house, he gave up on his search and retreated to his office in a fit. He was certain the girl had run away.

He thought back to the night before, remembering how he had kissed her, mesmerized by the music she had made, despite her protests. He grasped a bottle of ink off of his desk and hurled it at the wall. She must see a monster, or maybe she saw one of the men she had encountered in the alley.

Running his fingers through his hair, he took a seat behind his desk and watched as the ink flowed down the wall to pool on the wooden floor. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the small packet of papers. He fingered the carefully tied bow, then pulled it loose, letting the papers fan out in his hand.

He shuffled through them, setting aside the birth certificate, a certificate of work from the opera, and a reference letter from Mme. Giry.

 _Gustave Daaé_ , _A Song of Little Lotte, for Christine._ Erik ran his fingers over the words inscribed across the top of the scored paper. He read through the music and felt a sudden urge to play through it.

He walked to his piano and spread the sheets out before him and played the first few lines to get a feel for the pace of the tune. It was a gentle, playful tune,

 _Little Lotte, let her mind wander  
Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of shoes?  
Or of ribbons or frocks?  
Or of chocolates or hues?_

 _Little Lotte, let her mind wander  
Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of cats?  
Or of fishes or trees?  
Or of flowers or gnats?_

 _Not gnats! Said she  
And she smiled and she laughed  
And dear Little Lotte  
Let her mind wander_

 _Little Lotte, let her mind wander  
Little Lotte thought, I am fondest of you!_

Erik smiled at the final lines. The song was pleasing to play and to sing, clearly made for a young child by her loving father. _How_ , he lamented, _had she found her way to the alley that night?_

The door opened suddenly, banging hard against the wall. John stood breathlessly in the doorway, "Sir, something terrible has happened! Please, you must come." Thinking of Christine, Erik stood and hastily followed him.

The foyer echoed with worried voices as they descended the steps and lights glinted off the finery of the opera patrons as they milled through the room. Along the walls, several women were being given smelling salts to revive them from a faint. As they came to, their wails filled the hall.

"What happened?" Erik asked John urgently.

"Someone fell from the catwalk," John said in a low voice, forging a path through the agitated crowd.

Erik felt the blood rush from his head. Could it be her? Had she wandered too close to the edge and lost her grip? He pushed ahead of John, shouting authoritatively for people to clear a path for them.

They broke through the crowd and into the house, rushing up the aisle to the stage. The curtains had been lowered, and they fought their way through them. There they met a grisly scene.

Carlotta and Piangi stood to one side, clinging to one another. Carlotta was crying loudly, babbling incoherently in the tongue of her native land.

Mssrs. Moncharmin and Richard stood near them, both pale with shock.

"This will surely ruin the opening," Mssr. Moncharmin said flatly, his eyes round and his mustache quivering.

"I dare say," Mssr. Richard replied, placing a hand on Moncharmin's shoulder and leaning heavily on his lavishly carved cane.

Mme. Giry and Meg stood at the edge of the crowd around the body. Meg was crying quietly, one hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs. Her mother had a strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, and her nose was pushed high into the air, flaring as she rapidly breathed.

At their feet lay the body of Joseph Buquet, his eyes open and slightly bulging, his head surrounded by a halo of blood.

Erik felt an unnerving sense of relief to see the stagehand lying there before him. The crowd suddenly quieted and parted, revealing a bruised and disheveled Christine Daaé, supported on the arm of a tall, portly man dressed in a tuxedo. When she saw the body, she wretched and buried her face in the man's chest, her body shaking.

A jealousy like Erik had never known burned through his body. He wanted to run to her, to be the one to steady her, but he remained in place. He quelled the jealousy, and raised his voice. "What happened?"

The man looked up from the sobbing girl in his arms and said, "That is exactly what I seek to discover, Mssr. I am Inspector Lavoie of the Police Nationale."

* * *

Inspector Lavoie had requested, and been granted, access to Mme. Giry's office to question the young woman he had found on the stairs leading to the roof of the theatre. He had been trying to get a better look at the position where he believed the man had fallen from, suspecting foul play. A fall from the catwalk would not kill a man of Mssr. Buquet's stature. The man would undoubtedly have broken bones, but he would have survived.

When he found the young girl, he also found the gap in the railing where the man must have fallen through — the edges were splintered and a spindle hung over the side, broken.

He reached for her hand, and she hesitantly took it, letting him lead her down to the stairs to the stage. On the last few stairs, she had resisted, looking fearfully at the crowd on the stage. He had coaxed her forward, gently offering a few words of encouragement.

She had nearly bolted at the sight of Mssr. Buquet's body, and when he had announced himself as the inspector, he felt the girl go limp in his arms.

He now sat across from her, leaning his chin on his entwined fingers, his elbows on the desk. The room was crowded, and he felt a bead of sweat work it's way below the collar of his tuxedo. The managers and Mme. Giry had insisted on being present for the interrogation, and one of the opera patrons, a Mssr. Chenet, had forced his way into the room as well.

The girl sat with her hands in her lap, her head lolling forward limply. The mask that covered her face had been knocked askew, and he saw a strip of tight, lumpy skin along the chin on the right side of her face. He was curious about that face, but he was curious about a great many things at the moment.

"Mlle. Daaé, is it?" he said, leaning back in the chair and placing his arms on the rests on either side.

She nodded, not looking up.

"I see that you are suffering greatly from the death of Mssr. Buquet. I take it you were present when he fell?"

She nodded again, hunching her shoulders further and twisting a handkerchief between her shaking hands.

"Can you tell us what the circumstances were of this fall?"

She finally raised her eyes to meet his, and they shone with tears.

"Inspector Lavoie, please understand, the girl is mute," Mme. Giry said, taking a step forward.

"No she's not," Mssr. Chenet chimed in impatiently.

The girl sighed at his words, and said, "Mssr. Chenet is right. I am not mute."

Mme. Giry gasped, shocked, and strode to the girl's side, taking one of her hands in her own. "Christine, why did you never tell me?"

The girl paused, the tears in her eyes flowing over. "I didn't know how."

Inspector Lavoie interrupted the two. "Please, Mme. Giry, if you wouldn't mind?" he said kindly, gesturing towards Christine and looking significantly at the spot Mme. Giry had vacated.

Mme. Giry's lips flattened, and her brow furrowed, but she did as he requested and returned to her position, letting Christine's hand drop to her lap.

"If you will, Mlle. Daaé, please tell us what happened."

* * *

 _He found three mean dead in the alley where we'd found her._

The words echoed endlessly through Christine's mind as she wandered the dark pathways hidden behind the walls of the theatre.

 _Is this who I am?_ she thought to herself, _A murderer?_ When she had heard the words fall from Mme. Giry's lips, she ran, unable to bear listening to any more of how Mme. Giry had found her. She had been abandoned, left to become a monster with the blood of three men on her hands.

 _"_ Where were you, father? _"_ she had cried out, collapsing in exhaustion at the end of one of the passages.

After hours of wandering in near dark, she suddenly felt the need to be outside, to feel the wind on her face, drying her tears. She climbed the stairs to the roof mindlessly, unaware that her outburst had caught the attention of Joseph Buquet, who had been quietly following her since.

When she reached the roof, she flung her arms open to the strong wind that carried across the rooftops. She fell to her knees and prayed to God, begging his forgiveness for sins she had never committed but now carried.

This was how Joseph Buquet found her, on her knees, her fingers clasped, her lips moving silently in an ardent prayer.

* * *

"I needed some air," Christine began, trying to push away the thoughts of the new death she now carried, one for which she was truly responsible.

"I received some," she paused, "shocking news. Mssr. Chenet offered me a position as a maid in his home, and I needed a moment to collect my thoughts."

Mssr. Chenet stilled at this, staring at the girl in confusion. _How could she possibly have known that?_

"Mssr. Buquet followed me to the roof. He had been, he has been watching me for some time, and I pushed him this morning after he was… too close," she said, limply gesturing as she struggled to find the words. "He was drunk, and he tried to… he was.. he pushed himself on me. I tried to run away, but he caught me on the stairs and we struggled. I pushed him away, and he…" she trailed off, not able to finish.

She looked at her hands again, remembering her fear as Joseph had pulled her to her feet and rubbed himself against her. How she had been enveloped in the stink of his body, thick with fumes from the whiskey he kept stowed away in his pocket. He tore at her clothes and gripped her neck tightly when she resisted. Then she thought of the way his face had morphed into a silent scream as he broke through the railing, the sickening crunch that rang out when his body hit the stage. She felt fresh tears start in her eyes and blinked rapidly, willing them to stop.

Inspector Lavoie leaned back in his chair, watching the girl and thinking through her story. It seemed plausible enough, but he had not missed the look that passed over Mssr. Chenet's face when she mentioned the offer for a position as a maid in his home.

"Mssr. Chenet," he intoned, "is it true that you offered Mlle. Daaé a position on your household staff today?"

The man straightened and, looking him intently in the eye, said, "Yes. I recently came to need a new maid, and Mlle. Daaé seemed a good fit."

The inspector nodded, still stroking his beard. "Is there anyone who can corroborate this?"

Mme. Giry spoke up, "Yes, Mssr. Inspector. Mssr. Chenet came to me this morning to ask if the girl would be open to such an offer."

"And what is your relation to Mlle. Daaé?" he asked, carefully watching the girl's reactions.

"I found her when she was young and brought her to the opera. I have been keeping an eye on her," she said.

He nodded, satisfied that he had the information he needed.

"I thank you all for your time," he said, rising to his feet. "Now I must see to the body and notify Mssr. Buquet's family of his death."

The crowd in the room parted for him, and the managers anxiously followed him out, offering stagehands to help carry the body. He declined, certain that the police could take care of the grisly task.

Mme. Giry went to Christine, kneeling at her side and taking her hand. "Christine," she whispered, raising a hand to the girl's face. "Oh, how I wish you had told me you could speak."

"I could not, Mme.," she replied flatly. "I know my place in life, and I would not seek to impose upon yours for my own selfish need."

"Foolish girl," Mme. Giry replied, standing and pulling the girl into a hug. Christine wrapped her arms around the woman's waist, bathing in her familiar scent, same as it had always been, of musty costumes, perfumed makeup, and sweat.

Mssr. Chenet cleared his throat, and said, "Mme. Giry, may I have a private word with Mlle. Daaé?"

She gave him a sharp look. "Please, Mssr. This is no time to talk business."

He laid a hand on her shoulder, "I disagree, Mme. The events of tonight may have altered Mlle. Daaé's choice, and I need to know as soon as possible whether she will accept my offer or maintain her employment here."

"Have you no heart, sir?" Mme. Giry said, "Can you not see that the girl is unwell?"

Christine gripped Mme. Giry's hand, drawing her attention. "Please, Mme. I do not mind."

With a worried look, Mme. Giry squeezed Christine's hand. "I will give you some time. Please do not hesitate to leave should you need to."

Christine gave her a small smile, nodding her agreement, and Mme. Giry left the room, throwing a warning look at Mssr. Chenet as she left, pulling the door closed behind her with a definite bang.

"Do you think they will send me to jail, Mssr. Chenet?" she asked quietly, the smile fading from her face.

"I imagine not. You would already be on your way," Mssr. Chenet replied coolly, moving to take a seat across from Christine. "Would you call me Erik, Mlle. Daaé?"

She looked up, surprised. "Erik," she said in a small voice.

"Now, we have some business to discuss. You told the inspector that I offered you a position in my household, though I am certain I never made such an offer. Certainly I discussed it with Mme. Giry, but you disappeared before I could ask."

Erik watched as a blush creeped into Christine's face. "I may have," she cleared her throat, "overheard your conversation."

He raised an eyebrow at her admission, wondering how she had done it. "Well, do you accept?"

Christine stilled. She had thought perhaps this offer was a clever ruse. But it was real. Had she imagined the look in his eyes the night before as he'd held her?

At her hesitation, he added, "I have been thinking of starting a program in music for certain... talented members of my staff."

Her heart gave a hopeful leap, and she sought his eyes, needing to know that this was the true nature of his offering. His eyes softened when they met hers, and she nodded. "Yes. I accept your offer."

Erik released a breath he didn't realize that he had been holding and walked around the desk to take one of Christine's hands. He eyed the dark bruises on her throat, and his face crumpled. His voice caught as he said, "I promise, you will be safe in my home."

Christine squeezed his hand and replied, "I believe you."

The two sat in silence for a moment, searching one another's faces. Christine cleared her throat again, asking in a low voice, "May I ask a favor?"

"Yes, anything," he replied, taking her other hand.

"May I stay the night with Mme. Giry and Meg?" she asked quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I would appreciate their company after…" she trailed off.

Feeling a sting of disappointment, he acceded to her request, knowing she was in need of a friend. They agreed that he should retrieve her the following evening to bring her to her new home.

She gave him a grateful smile and squeezed his hands as she stood, "Thank you." She leaned forward, raising herself on her toes, and placed a small kiss on either side of Erik's face. "Au revoir, Erik."

"Au revoir, Mlle. Daaé," he replied, letting her hands drop from his.

When she reached the door, she paused and turned to him, "Will you call me Christine, Erik?"

"Au revoir, Christine," he said, a sweet smile spreading across his face as his mouth formed her name.


	7. In the Moonlight

_A/N: For anyone who has already read this little tale of mine, please forgive the copy/pasta. I decided these lines from the last chapter would be better starting a new one; I like the impact their absence gives the ending of the last._

After exiting the office, Christine sought Mme. Giry and Meg, finding them standing in the wings of the stage carefully ignoring the stagehands scrubbing the blood from the floorboards. She notified them of her acceptance of Mssr. Chenet's offer, and Mme. Giry smiled, pulling her close and murmuring a few words of congratulations.

"I also requested that I be allowed to stay the night with you, if you do not mind?" she continued hesitantly.

"Of course, Christine. You are always welcome in our home," Mme. Giry replied with a warm smile.

Meg suddenly flung her arms around Christine's neck and offered a few soft words of sympathy, then softly scolded her for her silence.

Christine laughed, grateful for her old friend, and hugged her back.

With one last squeeze, Meg let Christine go and held her at arms length, looking her up and down for a moment with a thoughtful gaze. "You must have some things to gather — will you meet us back at Maman's office in ten minutes time?"

Christine nodded, "Yes," she said, finding her voice. "I don't have much to retrieve — I could meet you here in five minutes, more likely."

Meg gave a playful smile and said, "Take ten anyway — it will be good to say goodbye to the opera, I think."

Christine nodded again in reply and began the short walk to her room. When she arrived, she ran her hands over the few pieces of furniture, rubbing her fingers together to remove the thin layer of dust that collected on them. She found a small bag under the bed, a satchel with her name embroidered on it. She recognized it as the same one she'd had when she was young, in the youth she remembered. Her father had bought it for her just before they came to Paris with Professor Valérius. Had they been on their way to meet him that night? What had become of her father?

She shook her head, not ready to face the questions that burned in her heart. Pushing her thoughts to the back of her mind, she started collecting her few belongings. A tightly wrapped rag containing the salary she had earned, two sets of drab underclothes, ballet shoes, her extra, significantly worn and tattered, dress. She ran a hand over the rough fabric, remembering the soft silks she had worn during her years in the de Chagny household. These clothes were far more comfortable than any of those gifts born of obligation.

Finally, she retrieved from between the straw mattresses the diary she had been keeping. She flipped to the last entry she had written just that morning.

 _I left him there in the darkness with his pain. My soul felt light as a feather as Raoul spirited me away from the chaos and noise as the mob descended into the phantom's lair, but as soon as we were outside with people milling madly around us, I started to feel the weight of my choice. The man I had once loved as a friend and father had offered himself to me as a lover, and I refused and rejected him out of fear._

 _After Raoul abandoned me, I often dreamed of that night with happiness rather than fear. For a few short moments, I had grown beyond my selfish and shortsighted youth and accepted my Angel, my Erik, for who he was. I would dream of the feeling of his lips against mine, warm and needy. His moan as I carefully touched the disfigured side of his face._

 _For so many years, the weight of my choice hung always around my neck as they did for the ghost of Marley from the Dickens novel A Christmas Carol. Each time I moved, the chains rattled horribly. Each time a rose appeared and each time I did not reach for it to show my Angel that I had forgiven him, and in turn begged his forgiveness, they grew longer and heavier._

 _Unlike Marley, I find myself now with the opportunity to earn the love of this man who adored and loved me. Though I am a new woman, and he is a new man, I hope to find the strength to bring him joy in this life that I could not bring him in the last._

 _I shall no longer bring you stories of my past, dear diary, for it is a past that should be forgotten except within your pages._

She closed the book with a small smile. The memories of her past were now safely stored away in this precious tome, and she felt an itchy anticipation growing in her heart to start truly living in this new life.

For a moment, she laid back on the bed and stared at the beams running across the ceiling, lost in a dream of a new life with Erik, a man whose abrasiveness had at first made him completely abhorrent. But his voice, the way he had so carefully spoken to her after the evening's incident, the way he had looked upon her disfigurement with wonder and not fear. These thoughts made a bubbling hope build in the pit of her stomach that she would find in him the man she had known for so many years.

Thinking suddenly of the passing time, she snatched up the last items she owned, the pencil and sharpening knife, from their place on the shelves and exited the room, closing the door behind her with a definite thump.

Avoiding the small pockets of people still milling dazedly through the back area of the theatre, Christine made her way to Mme. Giry's office. She knocked and heard Mme. Giry grant her entrance through the door. She pushed into the office to find Meg and her mother bent over some parchment that had diagram with a few numbers scribbled along the sides.

"What is that?" Christine asked curiously, forgetting her manners and leaning over to read what it said. Meg blushed and rolled it up, putting it away in one of the desk drawers.

"It's nothing — you're ready to go then, Christine?" she asked, recovering herself and smiling brightly, her dimples deepening.

Christine raised a curious eyebrow at her, but nodded. Mme. Giry went around the room snuffing the candles, then shuffled the girls out one of the rear exits of the theatre to avoid the crush of press and patrons in the foyer.

They stole away through the dark, moving swiftly down the darkened streets of Paris. Christine felt exhilarated — she had only left the theatre once in the last few months to purchase her ballet shoes, and that had been an experience more terrifying than she had expected. People had stared at her mask openly, their jaws hanging agape. Some children had laughed at her, calling out awful names at her as she ran back towards the theatre _._

Now, though, she was hand in hand with two friends who were leading her through the darkness. She was leaving the opera entirely and facing a future full of music and freedom.

"Just a few blocks, now," Mme. Giry said, quickening her pace. She gave Christine a worried look.

Christine frowned in confusion for a moment, then remembered that soon they would be crossing the alley in which they had found her so many years ago. She gave Mme. Giry a firm nod and pushed ahead with her chin thrust in the air, willing herself to be strong in facing the location of the dark events of her past.

As they passed the alley, Meg glanced down it fearfully for a moment, then flashed Christine a tight grin. "Nearly home," she said, her face relaxing when they had passed the ill-lit alley.

When they arrived at the cozy little house, Mme. Giry unlocked the house and let the girls in, closing and locking it behind her with a loud click.

"Meg," she said in a firm tone, "please notify Mlle. Evard that we would like some tea and that a fire should be lit in the sitting room."

Meg immediately obeyed, lighting a candle to illuminate her way.

"Christine," Mme. Giry said, turning to her, "If you would not mind, could you please go light the candles in the sitting rom while we wait for Mssr. Narcisse to bring in some wood? I will have Mlle. Evard bring your bag to your room later when we are settled."

Christine nodded, setting down her satchel, and went to work, happy to have a job to distract her from her tangled thoughts.

Soon, the fire was blazing and the three women were gathered around it, hot cups of tea warming their hands. None spoke, as if afraid to break the spell of calmness that had overtaken them. The events at the theatre had shaken them all deeply, and each was glad to enjoy the others' company in comfortable silence.

When an hour had passed and the teapot was cold, Mme. Giry announced that it was long past time for bed and herded the girls upstairs, directing Christine to her room, where a crisp, white woolen nightgown had been laid out for her. She wished Meg and Mme. Giry goodnight and undressed herself, sighing happily as the slightly itchy fabric encased her in warmth.

She crawled into bed, curling up under the covers, and fell asleep, exhausted from the day.

* * *

"No," Christine shouted, sitting up straight in bed. Her heart raced in her chest, and her legs tingled, ready to run at a moments notice. She wrapped her arms around her torso, rocking slightly to calm her frayed nerves. She had been dreaming of the last night she had seen her beautiful, deformed Erik. When she pulled away from their kiss, his face melted away and morphed into that of Joseph Buquet, lips forming a surprised "o" as he fell to his death.

She took a few deep breaths, but they did little to calm her. The gut-wrenching fear had followed her to consciousness, and no matter how she tried she could not will it away.

Determinedly, she threw off the thick quilt and moved to the edge of the bed, shivering when her bare feet met the cold floorboards. She padded through the darkness to the door, pulling it open and looking down the hallway either way to check if anyone was up. Not seeing anything, she moved quickly out into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind her. She made her way up the hall to the room that had always been Meg's, hoping it would be so in this life as it was in the last.

She pushed open the door, peeking her head in, and was glad to see Meg's frock hanging over the back of a chair, her boots discarded carelessly at the door. She smiled and moved them out of the way, slipping fully into the room.

Meg rolled over in bed and squinted in the dark, "Christine?" she asked sleepily.

"Yes," Christine whispered back. "I had a bad dream, and I was hoping…" she paused. Though Meg very much seemed like her friend of old, she really did not know her. Maybe she was being too forward in seeking her comfort. "I may be overstepping," she continued timidly, "but I was hoping I could sleep with you tonight."

Meg smiled, seeing Christine's discomfort. She wanted to scold the girl again for being so unsure of their hospitality, but instead shifted over and beckoned for Christine to join her.

Christine gratefully moved to the bed, slipping into the warm spot that Meg had vacated for her. They laid on their sides with their heads facing each other, neither speaking for a moment.

Breaking the silence, Meg said, "I am glad you are finally speaking. Maman and I suspected that you could for a long time, but we did not want to pry into your life. You seemed so, well, determined to be solitary. What inspired you to start speaking again?"

Christine opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated. How much could she tell this Meg? Could she tell her everything? Though she longed to share everything of her past life, she worried that Meg would think her mad. The idea of the Angel of Death granting another chance at life was like a fairy tale — something that could not be real.

Deciding to stick with a white lie, she replied, "Today, really. When Mssr. Chenet offered me the position in his household. I thought, perhaps, that I would squander the opportunity if he thought I was truly mute and if I replied only in nods."

"Maman had already told him about your muteness," Meg replied with a short laugh. "He insisted on hiring you even knowing that — I am certain you would not have squandered the opportunity. I am, however, very glad that you chose to speak up."

Christine blushed as she remembered how Erik had dismissed her muteness when asking Mme. Giry for permission to hire her on and the reason he had done so. She quelled the hope budding in her stomach at the thought of the kiss they had shared, and simply said, "That explains his shock when I spoke!"

Meg laughed at that, imagining the self-assured man shocked by a servant girl. They both lay in a happy silence, thinking over the joyful events of the day. Christine's thoughts betrayed her as the image Joseph Buquet's broken body worked its way to the forefront of her mind, and Meg caught the frown that spread across her face.

Changing the subject, Meg asked, "So, what have you been doing all of these years? I imagine your life has contained more than just cleaning."

Christine eyed Meg carefully, deciding to confide in her the way she would have so many years ago. She implied that she had led a boring life of 'just cleaning' as Meg had put it for many years.

"However, after I was moved to cleaning only at night, I felt as if I had awoken from a dream. With the busyness of daytime no longer distracting me, I was able to find the true self I think I lost many years ago. I longed for music, and I longed to dance," Christine said, staring at the ceiling, lost in her thoughts. "I spent those long nights practicing my singing using techniques that my teacher… that my father had taught me long ago. During the day, I would watch the ballet rehearsals to learn stretches and techniques, and I would sometimes even break into the rehearsal room to watch myself dance in the mirrors!" Christine whispered this last confession, glancing daringly at Meg, who replied with a mischievous smile.

"I know that with this face I may never get to perform on stage, but in the dark of night when I had the stage to myself, I could almost imagine it," Christine finished, trailing off sadly.

Meg's face fell sadly at her words, knowing that they rang with truth. No matter if Christine sang or danced beautifully, she would be denied her dreams due to the wretched mass of flesh hiding behind her satin mask.

She gripped Christine's hand under the covers to soothe the hurt in her friend's voice. "Will you sing me something?"

Christine looked taken aback for a moment, then smiled and rolled on her back, clearing her throat. She picked a tune her father had sung to her many times as a girl, a song of the lovely hills and rushing waters in Uppsala. By the third verse, Meg had fallen asleep, and Christine felt her own eyes start to droop. With a happy sigh, she descended again into a deep sleep.


	8. In the Sunlight

Twelve long chimes from the grandfather clock in the hallway roused Christine from her, thankfully, dreamless sleep. She stretched widely, pointing her fingers and toes and luxuriating in the warmth still lingering under the covers. The space next to her was empty, and she felt somewhat disappointed not to see her dear friend there teasing her for sleeping in so late.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing when her toes touched the still-cold floorboards. She wrapped her arms around her midsection and crept to the door, peeking out though a crack to make sure she would not be caught out in her nightgown.

Seeing that the hallway was clear, Christine ran to her room, disappearing inside and pulling the door closed with a satisfying thump. She turned to the bed, intending to retrieve her satchel from beneath it, but stopped in her tracks at the sight that met her.

Laid across the bed was a beautiful navy blue muslin gown, trimmed along the neck with beautiful cream lace, the capped sleeves trimmed with the same. A lovely cream colored shawl was laid out next to it — it was made of a soft, dyed cotton. She ran her hands over the gown, rubbing a soft pleat between her fingers and smiling.

"Mother and I made a few guesses at your size, so it may not be a perfect fit," Meg's voice came from behind her. She had slipped into the room while Christine was distracted. At Christine's amazed glance, she gave a wide smile, her dimples deepening prettily.

"Oh, Meg," Christine said, unable to go on for the lump rising in her throat.

She cleared her throat and, remembering her manners, said, "I have a few wages saved, and I am sure Mssr. Chenet would be wiling to give me an advance to cover the cost."

Meg frowned at her words and stepped forward, grasping Christine's arm and looking intently into her eyes, "No, Christine. Please, accept this as a gift from Maman and me. Please."

Christine nodded with a smile, and said timidly, "Thank you, this means the world to me." _This is truly my Meg_ , she thought to herself, admiring the generosity of her friend.

Relieved that Christine did not push the issue, Meg returned her smile and gave her arm a gentle squeeze before letting it go. "This was a gown that I wore a few years ago until," she paused, "well, until I grew out of it." She blushed and gestured to her generous bosom, and Christine let out a small laugh.

She returned to the bed, picking up the gown and turning it around in her hands. The back was lined with small brass buttons that she would never be able to finish herself. "Will you help me dress, please, dear Meg?"

"Of course!" the young woman replied with a warm smile. Christine slipped out of her nightgown, folding it and laying it carefully on the bed, and pulled on her underclothes. Meg helped tie her corset, and she smiled, thinking how familiar this scene was to her. She had forgotten the wonderful, simple happiness that came from having her dear friend help her into her clothes.

When the frock was buttoned in place, Meg pulled her out into the hallway to the full-length mirror. Christine gasped — she hadn't worn such well-fitted clothing in years. She smoothed her hands down her waist and over her hips, marveling at the shape the dress gave her. It fit her very well, except for a little gaping in the bodice. Meg bustled around her and pinched at the sagging areas, "It seems we overestimated a bit on the bust," she muttered.

Christine laughed in reply, "Yes, there is but very little in that area, much to my chagrin."

They returned to Christine's room hand in hand, and Meg retrieved a few pins from the drawer in the vanity. "We can pin it for now and sew it up later, after you have had breakfast."

Christine brightened at the idea of food, and her stomach gave a betraying growl. Meg laughed at the sound and went to work pinning the loose fabric, feeling much like an older sister helping a younger sister get comfortable in her skin. The laughter and camaraderie of the morning had lifted Christine's spirits immensely, and she thought regretfully of leaving this girl who she was just starting to know again.

When Meg had finished, she looked Christine up and down, lingering on her face for a moment. Christine dipped her head, moving her face so that the masked half was obscured from her view. For a moment, she had nearly forgotten about it. _I will never escape it,_ she thought dolefully, _even with my most intimate friends._

"There is one more surprise for you," Meg said in a near whisper, reaching inside the vanity drawer once again.

Christine swung her face around, looking curiously at the box Meg held in her hands. It was a simple brown box tied in twine. "We, again, had to guess at the right size, but…" she trailed off for a moment, choosing her words. "I think it will suit you much better than what you wear now."

With a curious glance at Meg, whose demeanor had shifted as if she were somehow uncomfortable with this gift, Christine accepted the box. She pulled apart the bow securing the twine around the box and let it fall to the ground as she lifted the cover.

Nestled in white tissue paper sat a canvas mask with brown leather straps attached that closely matched her hair color. It was flexible, able to form to her face rather than sit against it rigidly. She ran a hand over it, blinking rapidly to hold back her tears. It was a thoughtful gift, but it made her heart rend in her chest. It was a reminder that nothing in her life could ever truly be the same.

She forced a smile onto her face, and thanked Meg, who was now looking at her feet. "It's far more suitable than this garish satin thing," she said, gesturing to the mask she wore and trying to make her voice light. She cleared her throat and continued, "I will need some water and bandages, if you do not mind?"

Meg jumped into action at the request, disappearing for a few minutes to gather the required items. While she was away, Christine sat at the vanity and lifted the mask from the box, turning it over in her hands. The inside was sewn with a fine navy silk that matched her dress. It was soft and would certainly be more comfortable than the molded, starched satin.

Looking in the mirror, she ran a tentative finger around the edges of the mask she wore, feeling a crust of dried pus and tears. She loosened the straps, but the mask did not budge. She scrunched her face, feeling cracks form in the crust, pulling sharply against her skin as they broke.

When Meg reappeared in the doorway, she raised a hand to the mask to be sure it would not fall away. She gratefully accepted the water basin and pile of bandages.

"Would you like any help with it?" Meg asked listlessly, gesturing at her face. Seeing her discomfort, Christine declined.

"I think," she said with a slight frown on her face, "this is something I should do myself." She tried her best to ignore the fleeting look of relief that passed over Meg's face, but her heart burned at the sight of it. Meg nodded to her and slipped out of the room silently.

With the door firmly closed, Christine looked at herself in the mirror and started to work her fingers in around edges of the mask. Fresh tears fell down her face as she pulled it free, breaking open the old wounds. A repulsive stink of rotting flesh met her nose, and streaks of pus and blood dripped down the sides of her face and into her eyes.

She threw the old, stained mask across the room and went to work cleaning her wounds, whimpering as she scrubbed deeply into the sores. The left half of her face burned and glowed a bright red when she was finally done clearing away the gore. She touched the edges of her wounds, gently probing the white, swollen flesh that surrounded them.

She remembered how, when she was a girl, she had fallen and cut her leg terribly on the rocks when playing with Raoul. Her wound had festered, and the edges had looked much the same as those now on her face. The doctor had prescribed maggots to help clean the deep cut, and it healed in what seemed like a miraculous time. Everyone had been certain that she would have lost her leg if not for the maggots that cleaned the area. She made a mental note to request some from the kitchens in her new home, feeling a sudden and furious need to care for her horrid face.

Carefully, Christine folded several bandages into thick pads, worried that the wounds would leak through them onto the fine silk lining the mask. She held them against her face as she raised the canvas piece, and with a quick movement, she pushed the mask into place and held it firmly with one hand, wincing at the pressure on her freshly cleaned sores as she fastened the straps. The mask fit snugly, but she was sure it would be much more comfortable after her wounds had healed and she could wear it without bandages for fear of ruining the silk inset.

She leaned back in the chair, taking a long look at her face. She passed a hand over the new mask, wishing it were not so bulky with bandages. With a sigh, she stood and smoothed the skirts of her dress. She gathered her old dress and tucked it into her satchel, for the first time noticing the blood that stained the bottom of the bag. She passed a hand over it, wishing desperately that this object which so reminded her of her old past were not tarnished with a horrible memento of this new past.

With a shake of her head, she tore her mind away from her fruitless wishes and turned it towards breakfast and towards the evening ahead, when Erik would retrieve her and bring her to a new, exciting, music-filled life.

* * *

In his home on the Rue de l'Opera, Erik paced the study restlessly, a glass of brandy clutched in his hand. He looked to the clock, balking when he noted that only five minutes had passed since he had last checked the time. It was twenty minutes past noon, and he could barely contain himself.

 _Perhaps I could call on them for tea_ , he thought to himself. He treasured the thought for a moment, then discarded it with a scoff. Mme. Giry would surely see through such a farcical excuse to arrive early and would no doubt draw unwarranted conclusions about his intentions towards Mlle. Daaé. _"_ Christine," he whispered aloud to himself, stopping his pacing for a moment as he savored her name on his lips.

He had been amenable to her request to stay with the Girys the night before, but now he cursed himself for letting the girl out of his sight. The night found him sleeping fitfully, wondering whether Christine could sleep after the events at the opera, wondering whether she was finding solace in Meg and Mme. Giry's company or was trapped in nightmares beyond his imagination.

Taking a long draw from his brandy, he started pacing again.

A knock sounded at the door, and he turned to the sound with a furious growl. John Bernard stood in the doorway, looking anxiously at his employer. The man's mood had been unpredictable at best, and utterly foul at its worst, in the last few days. He was afraid to rouse the man's temper.

"Yes, John?" Erik asked shortly, gesturing expectantly.

John cleared his throat, "Excuse me, sir. Some post has arrived for you." He held out a bundle of letters, and Erik came forward to snatch them from his hands.

"Is that all?" Erik asked icily.

John nodded and ran from the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Erik sighed. He had not meant to frighten the boy, but he found himself completely unable to control the mood that had overtaken him since the night he had first heard Christine sing. His dreams were filled with her voice, lovely and inspiring, but an odd, despairing anger always followed him into consciousness.

He wandered over to the chaise lounge and sat on it, swinging his legs around to lean his back against the cushioned backrest. He dropped the letters onto the small table flanking the lounge chair and folded his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and remembering the dream he had the night before during the few short hours in which he had finally found rest.

Christine's voice echoed in a cavernous room, her haunting words describing a descent into the lair of the phantom of the opera. They were both in a boat that he was rowing across a wide, eerily calm lake. The only light came from a lantern hanging at the port end of the small raft, swaying gently as he pulled at the oars.

Her face was, again, whole and utterly beautiful, framed in dark, shadowed curls that made her pale skin seem to glow. She wore a long, flowing white robe that was loosely fastened at the waist and falling away from her chest, revealing a silken, pure white corset. His throat nearly closed at the sight of her breasts straining against it as she sang.

He heard himself join in her song, his voice flowing across the smooth lake and filling the space. The same lovely, turquoise eyes that he'd seen the first day he noticed her at the opera met his as he sang, glazed and unfocused as if she were in a deep trance.

 _In all your fantasies, you always knew. That man and mystery..._

She raised her voice to meet his, _Were both in you..._

Erik sighed aloud and ran his fingers through his hair, wondering what these dreams could possibly mean. They seemed so real, and yet they could not be. Feeling his ire begin to rise again with his confusion, he sat up on the chaise and buried his face in his hands.

Seeking distraction, he reached for the packet of letters, feeling satisfaction as he carelessly ripped away the wax seals. He set aside the bills to be copied and forwarded to his accountant, sorted out letters from wealthy matrons seeking his hand for their daughters to be read later as entertainment, and tossed letters from the managers directly into the fire burning in the hearth.

The letter at the bottom of the pile caught his eye. It was addressed to him in Farsi, and he knew immediately that it was from the Persian _daroga_. He tore it open without delay and read the few simple lines three times to be sure he understood them:

 _Erik,_

 _I have spotted your mother in Paris. She was speaking of you to some ladies of the noblesse over tea, and I fear she has decided to once again direct her attentions towards you._

 _Be safe,_

 _Nadir_

Erik crumpled the letter in his fist. His mother — his cold, hard, unfeeling mother — was here in Paris. He felt an immediate urge to pack the few belongings he truly cared about and leave the city immediately.

 _Christine,_ her name floated unbidden to the front of his mind. He could not leave now, not with the mystery this young woman presented about to unfold. He cursed his luck and strode to the door of the study.

"John!" he shouted down the hallway. The boy appeared in moments, as if he'd been waiting just around the corner to hear his master's call. "Fetch me a taxi. It is time to visit my old friend, Mssr. Khan."


	9. Dance of Fools

_A/N: The formatting of this document was compromised during my late-night upload. The following version has been remastered for your reading pleasure._

Christine leaned back in her chair, stretching momentarily to accommodate the early afternoon breakfast she had just eaten. Mme. Giry and Meg had pushed her to eat as much as she could, Meg clucking over her thinness and Mme. Giry quietly refilling her plate each time it emptied. The food they offered was simple but hearty and delicious. The three now sat around the table, sipping at coffee and sharing stories.

"When Mary first came to the opera as housekeeper, she was determined to remove you from the staff," Mme. Giry was saying. "She said you were an ill-tempered and foolish girl, but she never could provide proof of it. When I personally assured the managers of my faith in you, her face was red as a tomato." Her stoic face broke into a grin, remembering how the woman had sputtered at her support of the young woman.

Christine returned her smile and felt thankful that, despite their immediate absence, the Giry women had always been taking care of her while dancing around the edges of her life. They had both continuously expressed their happiness at her speaking again and their wish that they would have known long ago that she would welcome their hospitality. The more they shared stories of the past, though, the more Christine felt inclined to hold her tongue, unsure what secrets she may have been keeping from the women through the years.

When the coffee pot was empty, Meg offered to put the finishing touches on the bodice of Christine's dress, and the two retired to her room.

Christine sat on the bed in her underclothes, her arms wrapped around her torso and her eyes unfocused, lost in thought. Meg worked in silence, glancing occasionally at Christine's visage and wondering what she might possibly be thinking. She hoped it was a happy topic, but the line etched between her eyebrows made her believe otherwise.

"Where are you, Mlle. Daaé?" she asked, keeping her attention focused on her sewing.

Christine started at Meg's voice. She had nearly forgotten that the girl was in the room, so deeply lost was she in her mind. She had been imagining her childhood, the hours she had spent with her father singing and dancing, her happy childhood. The memories were tainted with the pain of his death, in this life and the last, and the encompassing loneliness that she had come to know intimately.

"Lost," she replied simply. At Meg's questioning look, she lied quickly, "I suppose I am nervous. I'm worried about how I will be received in Mssr. Chenet's home."

"Don't worry about such things," Meg admonished her. "If he should turn you out, we will take you in. You will be welcome in our home."

Christine smiled at the dear girl, reminded again of her generosity and kindness. However, the worried glance that Meg gave the lumpy mask on her face chased her smile away, and she turned her head to look out the window.

The girls sat in silence as Meg finished the dress. When it was done, she helped Christine into it again and led her to the parlor to wait for Mssr. Chenet's arrival. They passed the hours reading books aloud to one another, taking turns playing the different characters in the stories.

As the sun started to fall in the sky, Christine grew increasingly distracted, staring out the bay windows for minutes at a time, wishing Erik would appear to take her away from this home filled with so much love and yet so much worry and fear. She longed to be with him, to again make music with him.

Darkness fell, and Mme. Giry insisted that they take dinner as they waited. Christine barely touched her food, her stomach twisting in knots. _What if he changed his mind? What if he decided he no longer wants me?_

When they finished dinner without interruption, Christine was certain that Erik had forgotten her. She sat desolately in the window seat with her masked forehead pressed against the glass hard enough to feel the throbbing of her sore face. Then, out of the darkness, a small black carriage appeared and stopped in front of the house, it's lantern swaying slowly in the dark. She jumped to her feet and ran to open the door, but Mme. Giry stopped her.

"Put on your cloak and retrieve your bag," she said in a calm but firm voice.

Christine nodded, too nervous to speak, and Meg helped her into her cloak and picked up her satchel, her eyes starting to fill with tears. "Please write to me, Christine. Let me know whether you are well."

"I will," said Christine in a small voice, her conflicted emotions roiling in her chest. She pulled Meg into a hug and thanked her for all she had done. When she pulled away, tears were rolling in earnest down Meg's face, and she offered a smile, which Meg tried her best to return.

"Christine," Mme. Giry called from the foyer. "There is a gentleman here to retrieve you."

Meg gave her an encouraging smile, and she walked towards the woman, her eyes firmly planted on her feet, afraid of what secrets might be lurking in Erik's eyes.

"Good evening, Mlle.," an unfamiliar voice said. She looked up to see the young boy she had scared out of the opera. "I am John Bernard; I work for Mssr. Chenet. If you will please come with me?"

Christine felt her heart sink. She had desperately hoped that Erik would come to retrieve her himself. _I suppose that would send the wrong message_ , she thought wearily. She pulled the Giry women into a hug, thanking each for their kindness, hospitality, and the fine gifts they had given her.

Taking a steadying breath, she turned to Mssr. Bernard and nodded her head. He extended his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her down the walk. Her boots crunched in the icy gravel as they approached the carriage, and she looked back over her shoulder, giving the Giry's house one last look.

Light glowed behind Meg and Mme. Giry, who were still standing in the doorway watching her leave. Light from the fireplace illuminated the bay window, giving the home the appearance of warmth and welcome. She smiled and gave one last small wave over her shoulder, turning back to look at the black carriage looming ahead.

As they reached it, Mssr. Bernard released her arm and opened the door, holding out a hand for her to steady herself during the ascent into the cab. Inside, a small brazier was burning to ward off the chill and folded lap blankets were set out on the seat. She moved them out of the way and sat, fanning one out to settle on her legs.

Mssr. Bernard followed her into the carriage, tapping the roof as he settled in to indicate that they were ready to depart. She held out a blanket to him, and he took it with a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Mlle. Daaé," he said, tucking the lambskin under his thighs. "I am sorry for retrieving you at such a late hour. Mssr. Chenet was out visiting a friend in the afternoon, and I am afraid we lost track of time."

Christine nodded, wondering who Erik's friend could possibly be. A woman? the thought stole into her head, but she shook it out. She decided she would rather not know, especially if he had visited a woman.

"Where is Mssr. Chenet? I thought he would be coming to fetch me this evening," she asked the boy, who sat looking at his gloved hands folded in his lab. At her question, he looked up, his eyes meeting hers steadily.

"He is," John started, thinking of the temper Mssr. Chenet had been in when he left the house. "Indisposed," he finished lamely.

Mssr. Chenet's visit to Mssr. Khan had ended in an explosive row, their voices cutting through the closed doors behind which they sat. John had been able to clearly make out their words.

 _"You must leave the city, now! You should have left the moment you received my notice," Mssr. Khan had shouted._

 _"I will not run from her, Nadir!" Mssr. Chenet shouted in reply. "She has no more power over me, and I will not allow her to regain it!"_

 _"Foolish boy!" the daroga had returned. "She will always have power over you — she is your mother!"_

At the end of the exchange, Mssr. Chenet had emerged angrily from the room, demanding a cab. John ran out into the darkness to retrieve one, shouting out into the street until a passing hansom pulled over. Mssr. Chenet had climbed in the vehicle with a gruff thank you.

Before the vehicle pulled away, he stuck his head out the window and instructed John to catch another cab and retrieve Mlle. Daaé. He tossed the boy a small sack of coins, more than enough for the short cab ride, and rapped the roof, indicating he was ready to leave.

John had gone immediately to fetch the girl, wondering why Mssr. Chenet did not want to retrieve her himself. He had been intent on it the night before, even into the morning, until he had received his post. The boy furrowed his brow, wondering what could possibly cause such a drastic change in his countenance and intentions.

Christine watched the young boy closely, examining the emotions playing across his face. Mssr. Bernard was horrible at hiding what he was feeling, and she could easily discern the confusion and frustration he was feeling. She wanted to continue probing, to find more information about where Erik was, what he was doing, but she let the subject drop. She did not want him to misunderstand her interest, or worse yet, gain true understanding of it.

They rode together in silence for the remainder of the short trip, Mssr. Bernard lost in thought and Christine watching him. When the carriage came to a stop, he jumped into action, stepping lightly out of the cab and reaching a hand back to assist her. He led her into the house, again taking her on his arm in a gentlemanly fashion.

At the door, Mssr. Bernard stopped and gave two sharp knocks. It immediately swung open to reveal a tall, thin man. His hair was a very light gray, verging on white, and it ringed his skull, leaving the dome of his head clean and shiny. He looked down on her through thick glasses, his pupils starting to cloud with stigmatism.

He stepped aside to let them enter, closing the door quietly behind them.

"Mssr. Bouchard, this is Mlle. Daaé, the new maid," John said, allowing Christine to extend her hand in greeting. Mssr. Bouchard looked at it as if it were distasteful to him, and she retracted it, folding her hands nervously at her waist. "I will leave it to you to show her the house."

With that, John bowed to Mlle. Daaé and bid her good night, walking through the darkness to the back of the house. She wanted to call after him, wishing he would not leave her with the stoic, puckered man.

Without delay, Mssr. Bouchard intoned, "Welcome to la Maison de Chenet."

He spread a hand outward, drawing Christine's attention to the grandeur of the foyer. The walls were paneled with a cherry-red wood and the floor was a lovely parquet in dark mahogany. The black marble staircase loomed ahead of her, huge and intimidating. A carpet of red trimmed in gold that closely matched the walls cascaded down it. Doors were set in the walls throughout the hall, leading to the different areas of the house.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, looking up to the high, plastered ceiling, from which hung a grand chandelier. She thought unaccountably of the chandelier hanging in the opera, and for a moment she was back on stage, watching as it descended in a fiery column.

"Yes," the butler replied in a droll tone, looking down his nose at her.

Mssr. Bouchard was a man of taste, respectability and honor. The girl standing before him reeked of poverty, the lumpy mask covering her face giving away clearly what may have been hidden by the well-cut gown she wore. Her hair was fastened back in a hasty manner, loose curls escaping to lay against her neck. He could not imagine why Mssr. Chenet thought she would be a good fit for the household.

He expected his staff to be clean, prompt, well-mannered, and well-dressed. No maid or manservant could go about their duties during the day unless they passed his inspection, ensuring that not even a stray unclean fingernail would find its way into the notice of the master of the house.

Within this girl, though, he could already see a spark of defiance burning, despite her appearance of humility. She would undoubtedly be obstinate and disobedient, and he prepared himself to take extra notice of her.

"Tonight, I will give you a tour of the house and your duties and show you to your room. In the future, if you so wish you may spend Saturday evening and Sunday with family and friends. Mssr. Chenet is a generous master," Mssr. Bouchard said, walking towards a door down the hallway to the left of the staircase.

Christine followed him, straining her eyes to see the paintings hanging in the hall in the dim light of Mssr. Bouchard's lantern.

"It will behoove you to learn these halls well, Mlle., as they are lit very infrequently. Mssr. Chenet does not often entertain guests, and we are only to light the house in full in the rare event that he is entertaining," he paused, "at which time you are neither to be seen, nor heard."

Mssr. Bouchard looked back at Christine expectantly. She nodded her head, keeping her chin high, trying to convince herself that this was true for all but a few servants, that it was not a stricture intended for her alone.

Seeing the girl's understanding, Mssr. Bouchard continued on, giving her a history of the tenants of the house and an explanation of certain architectural pieces. She loved hearing the history of the home, but he delivered it in a voice so icy cold and indifferent, she felt completely removed from the joy and grandeur of the tale.

Mssr. Bouchard continued forward, sharing his history with the house. He had started as a footman many years ago and had been employed in nearly every role a man held in the home. He worked for each of the nine families who had lived here before Mssr. Chenet and was proud of the position he had earned in the household.

Every time he looked back to verify that Mlle. Daaé was listening and following him, he saw the girl straighten, lifting her drooping shoulders. He thought woefully of the time he would need to put in to training her to walk and talk properly. _An exercise in futility_ , he thought to himself, _she will never serve any master in person. She will always be relegated to attics and dark places._

He moved on to list the few staff in the household, starting with himself and Mssr. Bernard. He named the two maids, the footman, the cook, and the stable hand. When he finished, Christine had looked at him expectantly, as if expecting more. "We are a small staff. We rely on one another to complete whatever task is at hand, whether within the duties of our position or not," he looked her up and down, doubting that this masked girl would fit in their close-knit group.

Finally, they reached her room, and he waved her in, setting his lamp on the table just inside the door. It was a small room, but a comfortable one. It had a bed with a real feather mattress, a true luxury for a servant, and a small wardrobe. There was also a bookshelf, which had been added to the room by the fifth family in his tenure. The master of that time had encouraged his servants to be mindful of the world and to expand their understanding by reading. He had been one of Mssr. Bouchard's favorite masters.

Christine walked into her room, which was much larger than the one she had held at the opera. It had solid oak floors covered with a rag-rug that had been made with the scraps of beautiful, bright fabrics. She was glad to see it, thinking of how pleasant it would be in the morning to put her feet on a rug again instead of the cold floor.

She laid her satchel on the bed and looked back at Mssr. Bouchard. "Shall I unpack now?" she asked carefully, not wanting to further alienate this man who had met her entrance with such coldness.

"No," he replied stiffly, "we shall finish the tour of the house, and you may unpack after that."

She nodded her acquiescence and followed him back out of the room. He took her through the servant's quarters into the dark kitchens, showing her the pantry where she could find food if the cook was unavailable.

"You may eat what you please, within reason," he had said with a serious gaze, "Do not overstep your bounds."

She, again, nodded to show her understanding, and quietly followed him up a back staircase. Mssr. Bouchard paused at the second floor.

"The second floor is where the master lives. This floor is restricted only to the servants who are assigned here — you are forbidden from ever entering it without my permission," he had said coldly, watching her closely.

Christine quickly schooled her features and nodded, masking her confusion and frustration. She had been certain of Erik's intent to allow her into his life last night, to share his music with her and allow her to share hers with him. _What has changed?_ she asked herself, her mind running in circles. Maybe he saw her for the killer she had shown herself to be, maybe he realized that he could not be with a murderer. He could keep her here, at a distance, until after an appropriate time he could send her away.

At that thought, she shook herself internally, trying to forgive herself for the crimes she had committed, to forget her fears for the moment, and focus on the task at hand: learning her duties and convincing this man that she was worthy of her position in the household.

They ascended together to the third floor, where he showed her the guest rooms, all laid out with decadent decoration. She was careful not to touch anything, afraid that she would break a vase or tip over a candelabrum as she shook nervously under the gaze of the stoic butler.

After they had gone through each room, they returned again to the back staircase, climbing to the fourth floor. It was a long, low-ceilinged attic that held the furniture and refuse of one hundred years of tenants.

"This is where you will work," Mssr. Bouchard had said, his voice sharp with a note of satisfaction. "It will be your duty to sort through the whole of the attic and identify what may be thrown away. If I disagree with your analysis, you will not be pleased with my reaction."

Giving her a hard look, he continued, "You are to keep it free of dust and cobwebs, however long it should take to do so."

Christine swallowed a lump in her throat, looking around the hazy, dusty place. It would be difficult, nigh on impossible, to keep completely clean. _This must be Erik's intent_ , she thought to herself, _to give me a task I cannot possibly complete so he may legitimately remove me from my position_.

She wanted to sit on the ground and cry. She wished she had never come to this place, wished that she were back at the opera singing and dancing to an empty theatre, wished she were again happy, if lonely.

 _No_ , the word resounded in her mind. _You are stronger than this — you must prove to Erik that you can do the impossible so that he might see in you, again, what he saw that night at the opera. To prove to Mssr. Bouchard that you are not the urchin he sees_. She felt her spirits lift, encouraged by her tenacity of will, and she walked to the end of the attic, looking at the piles on either side.

In the piles, she saw knick knacks and treasures of years gone by, items which were once well loved but now forgotten. She felt a kinship with them and an urge to do well by these lost treasures. She walked back to Mssr. Bouchard and met his eyes with a steady gaze, raising her chin confidently, "I will be happy to take on this task, Mssr. Bouchard."

He gave her a long, calculating look, as if he were trying to figure out a riddle. After a few long moments of scrutiny, he nodded and led her back down the stairs to her room, taking a lamp out of the pantry along the way. He handed it to her and lit it carefully.

"This lamp is yours. You will not be issued a new one if you break it, so take care," he said steadily. "I will send for new uniforms on Monday, but until then you will need to wear your own clothes."

He noticed how she suddenly shifted from one foot to another, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I am afraid my wardrobe is rather thin, Mssr. This is the only dress which is not very well-worn, and it is not suitable for working up in the attic."

He raised an eyebrow at her, "What ever you have will suffice. You will not be seen by anyone but the servants for many months, I imagine."

She nodded glumly, wishing she could ask why. Wishing that she could demand to see Erik, to make him explain why he had been so kind and welcoming, so intent on having her with him, only to turn away from her in a night's time.

Mssr. Bouchard looked the girl up and down, guessing at her measurements. She was thinner and shorter than the two other girls who worked in the house, and he would have to order completely new dresses for her. He included in his list new undergarments, a corset, stockings, and shoes, for he was certain that the lovely gown she wore now was a charitable gift, and beneath it would be tattered and well-used garments. He expected the best from his staff, in attitude as well as in dress, whether they were clothes seen or unseen. He mentally tabulated the cost and sighed, hoping he would not need to request an extension on the staff budget to clothe this girl.

"Do you have any questions for me, Mlle. Daaé?" he asked finally.

Christine shook her head, "No, thank you. I look forward to working with you." She again offered the man her hand, hoping he would take it.

To her disappointment, he did not. He instead stared at it loathingly, "In the future, do not be so presumptuous as to shake the hand of your superior. Good night, Mlle. Daaé."

With that, he turned on his heel and left her standing in the dark hallway, her lantern flickering in the gentle waft of air flowing through the passage. She sighed, hoping that Mssr. Bouchard would one day give her the chance to make a good impression and walked into her room, setting the lantern on the table.

She unpacked her clothes into the wardrobe and tucked her diary between the mattresses. The pencil and sharpening knife she placed on a small table that sat by the bed and tucked her satchel underneath it. Her unpacking finished, she laid back on the bed staring at the paneled ceiling, watching the shadows play across it. The crushing confusion she had been feeling since John Bernard had appeared at the Giry's house returned in force, and her breathing increased rapidly with her heart rate.

She sat up and pressed a fist into her breast, willing her heart to cease its furious pounding. Gasping for breath, she reached behind her back and started unbuttoning the dress, wincing as her muscles pulled in uncomfortable directions.

As she reached the top of the buttons, she stood and contorted her body in every way she could, her fingers scrabbling at the last stubborn fastenings. No matter what she did, she could not reach them. She tried for several minutes, her breathing growing more frantic, and her body burning with heat from her frustration. A tiny bead of sweat made its way down her forehead.

With a deep sigh, she sat back on the bed and relaxed her arms, shaking them to chase away the numbness. She could not release her corset without unbuttoning the dress, and there was very little chance of her being able to do so herself. Her frustration bubbling over, Christine let a wayward tear escape, and buried her face in her hands, moaning.

She sat this way for a few minutes, running through the possibilities in her mind. Mssr. Bouchard had mentioned that servants were allowed to leave on Saturday evenings. It was very unlikely she would be able to find anyone, but the thought of sleeping in the constricting garment made her desperate to be free of it.

She stood and left the room, snatching the lamp off of the table as she went. The third and fourth floors were deserted, she knew, but perhaps she could find a lone resident in the servants' quarters. She walked quietly through the halls, looking for any signs of light or life in the rooms. However, even Mssr. Bouchard's room, marked by a placard with his name, _Mssr. Renald Bouchard_ , was dark. She had gone to his room in desperation — she did not want to even think of how he would have reacted to her requesting that he undress her.

Feeling dejected, she wandered out into the foyer, hoping that someone would soon return and find her. She was ready to even ask Mssr. Bernard for his assistance. She walked through the room, holding her lamp up high to look at the beautiful, but tragic, paintings hanging on the walls. Some depicted biblical scenes, others showing great battles. She found one painting of a vase of roses, an unexpectedly light topic in the midst of the torture and war of the paintings surrounding it. The background was thatched in white and grey, and the blood-red roses gave sharp contrast to it, cascading out of the black vase.

She was about to raise a hand to feel the texture of the paint when the room suddenly rang with music. With a start, she realized that the opening chords of Don Juan were ringing around her. _He is here. He is playing._

Christine pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders, feeling her forearms break out in gooseflesh. She gathered her skirts in her hand and followed the music, entranced by the beautifully discordant notes.

At the bottom of the staircase she paused, remembering Mssr. Bouchard's warning not to enter this space without his permission. The music continued to flow down to her, caressing her, easing her hesitation. In a trance, she started slowly up the staircase, holding her lantern high to illuminate her way.

The hallway at the top was long and dark, the sconces sitting cold and unlit. At the end of the hall, she could just barely make out a sliver of light shining beneath a doorway, the source from which the music was coming. She walked towards it in a haze, the task of removing her dress long forgotten. Erik's music had always drawn her like a moth to the flame, and she was powerless to resist it's call.

The music reached its crescendo as she approached the door, and she set the lantern on the floor to the right of door-jamb, crouching low to carefully blow it out. She stood and put a steadying hand on the doorknob and leaned her shoulder into the solid door, closing her eyes and basking in the gentle melody that opened the opera, innocent and playful. Aminta's first aria.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the room, closing it quietly behind herself. The heat from the hundreds of burning candles overwhelmed her as she stepped forward, taking in everything around her. The walls were covered in massive tapestries, hanging from floor to ceiling and covering what windows might have been there. There were several pieces of furniture scattered around the room, upholstered in a rich, scarlet velvet. Instruments of every kind adorned the corners of the room, waiting patiently for the touch of their master.

Immediately ahead of her was the source of the music — a massive organ, its spidery pipes spreading across ceiling of the room. She floated towards it, carried by the music. At the keyboard sat the man she had been thinking and dreaming of, a man who she cursed and hated for the position he had put her in, a man who she wanted and needed. She stopped a few feet behind him, her mind spinning tumultuously, watching his shoulder blades shift beneath the white dress shirt as he moved his hands fluidly across the keys.

When the cue came for Aminta to enter, Christine took a deep breath and raised her voice in song, letting the first words of the opera ring out.

The music stopped suddenly, and Erik pivoted on the bench to face her, his eyes wide with shock. They stared at one another for a long moment, and Christine could not help but think of the first time she had approached him this way. How she had torn off his mask, and how he had flown into a fit of rage.

She became suddenly aware of the mask against her face, feeling it throb in pain as his eyes lingered upon the lumpy shape.

"What are you doing here?" he finally asked her in a clipped tone.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her words sputtered in her throat. Erik stood fluidly and approached her, walking in circles around her, looking her up and down, drinking in the sight of her. He noticed that her curly hair was frizzed more than normal, and her lips and cheek were red like roses. He felt his mouth go dry at the sight of the lovely gown she wore, accentuating her tiny waist. Her breasts rose and fell with each labored breath as she struggled to speak.

"Well?" he prodded, circling closer, resisting the urge to reach out and tug one of the corkscrew curls that clung damply to her neck.

"I need help," she said finally, and her head fell.

He wanted to offer himself in any way she needed, but he refrained. His conversation with Nadir had made him unsure of this girl who had so thoroughly captivated his senses.

Earlier in the day, he had left to meet with Nadir to discuss his thoughts on the reason behind his mother's presence in Paris. They carefully walked through recent changes in his life, and he had felt compelled to share the connection he felt with Christine. He told Nadir of the way he had immediately been entranced by her, how she plagued his thoughts night and day.

Nadir had listened with a frown on his face, stroking his beard.

 _"It is not unlike your mother," he said when Erik had finished his confession, "to use young women to influence you so. A disfigured girl, you say?"_

 _Erik nodded, leaning forward in his chair and clasping his hands together. Nadir had sighed, "Well, it is unlike her to work with any person of a lower caste, but perhaps…" he trailed off, "You must remain wary of this girl."_

 _"In any case," he had continued, "You should have left the city long ago. We need not have this conversation if you are not here."_

Erik had argued with him, citing his promise to the young girl. Whether she was involved in some dastardly plot his mother was working, he could not break his promise, especially if it was found that she was not involved in any way. He had nearly begged Nadir not to make him leave, feeling as young and foolish as he had been in Persia so many years ago.

Nadir had fought him fiercely, and Erik left the man in a tower of fury. He sent John to retrieve the girl and retreated to the shadows of the second floor to watch her arrival. He had followed Christine and Mssr. Bouchard through their rounds, lurking in the shadows and watching her closely for any signs of sabotage.

He had not found any, but Nadir's voice still rung in his mind, echoing madly. Though he had wanted to go to Christine, to ask her to come and sing for him, he resisted. How curious and nearly damning it was, he thought, that she should come to him unbidden, asking for help.

"And what is it you need help with, _Mlle. Daaé_?" he purred in response, moving ever closer to her. She had started when she heard how close his voice was, and she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

Christine could feel the heat rolling off of Erik's body as he stalked quietly behind her, moving silent as a cat on the hunt. A blush rose in her cheeks, and she faced forward again, closing her eyes and reveling in his smell as he grew near.

"I need assistance with my dress, _Mssr. Chenet_ ," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady, but breaking on the last syllable of his name.

He stopped inches away from her back, and breathed, "I thought you had agreed to call me Erik."

She smiled at his banter, hope welling in her chest that all was not lost between them. "I thought you had agreed to call me Christine," she replied in a cheeky whisper. He let loose a chuckle at her response, and the blush in her cheeks deepened.

Steadying herself with a deep breath, she turned to face him, gazing up into his eyes, marveling at the way the candlelight played in his golden irises.

"Will you help me?" she asked, searching his face, hoping to read the thoughts that lay behind it.

"It seems rather inappropriate, Christine, for an employer to undress his employee," he said in response, a cold edge working its way into his voice.

She hesitated at his tone, then looked at her feet in embarrassment, "I am sorry, Erik; I am afraid there is no one left in the household but you."

It's Saturday, he realized with a start. Of course no one was available to help the girl, they had all gone home to their families or out to the taverns to drink away their wages. He felt suddenly foolish at the suspicions he had been casting at the girl, pricked by Nadir's worried accusations.

He reached out a hand and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. "I will help you, Christine. If you will do me a favor." he said, stepping closer to her. He saw her lips part, and her eyes grew cloudy. With her near, all of the fears and questions Nadir had raised disappeared. He saw the effect he had on her and felt the effect she had on him.

She gave a small nod, and his hand bobbed with the movement of her chin. He bent his head close to her ear, holding back a sigh as he was enveloped in her sweet scent, "Sing for me."


	10. The First Night

_Dedicated to my favorite goat._

Christine closed her eyes and turned her face slightly, her cheek just millimeters from Erik's lips. She breathed in his musky scent, thick with incense and sweat. She wished that they could stay in this moment forever. With him so close, whispering in her ear, she felt the rejection and fear of the day melt away, replaced instead with blossoming hope and anticipation.

Erik swiped his finger across her chin gently, stopping when he touched her mask. Christine stepped away suddenly, turning her eyes towards the floor and moving her head to hide the mask. Erik stood for a moment with his hand still outstretched, then straightened and coughed.

"Well?" he asked in a tone that was suddenly hard, his seductive whisper of a moment before gone in an instant.

"Yes, I will sing for you," she said. She lifted her face to look at him, but he turned on his heel and strode away from her, towards the upright piano standing in the far corner of the room. "Now?" she asked, her voice raising in a squeak.

"There is water and wine over there," he called to her, gesturing to a small table against the wall that held a pitcher, decanter, and the remnants of his dinner. "Best not to sing on a dry throat," he said, lifting his voice to a squeak on the last syllable and raising a sardonic eyebrow

She nodded and walked to the table to pour a glass of water, cursing herself for ruining the moment. She wanted to rip the mask from her face and toss it in the fireplace.

Erik watched Christine cross the room and pour a glass of water, her brow furrowed in a deep frown. He pushed back an urge to go to her and smooth the lines from her face. With her near, his mind had been cloudy, his senses ensnared by her scent, by the smooth skin that burned beneath his fingers, by the soft curls that tickled his lips as he moved them against her ear. In that moment, he had wanted to pull her into his arms, throwing all care and hesitation to the wind.

How is it I am having such thoughts about a woman I barely know? He thought in frustration, raking his hands through his hair.

His face mirrored her frown as she turned away from the table, thirst sated and walked towards him. How is she doing this to me? He had spent years in the royal court of Persia learning the deceptions of women, but no woman there, even the best in the harems of the Shah, affected him as this tiny chit of a girl. Even with her masked, deformed face, she made him feel that he was again an innocent boy of sixteen enamored with his first love.

As Christine crossed the room to join him at the piano, she pulled her shawl away from her shoulders, carefully folding it and laying across the back of an intricately carved bench. She rested her hand on it, as if steadying herself, then straightened her shoulders and walked to him, her chin high. "Shall we?" she asked him in a quavering voice that betrayed her stoic demeanor.

He looked her up and down, taking in the proud tilt of her chin, the soft jutting shelf of her collar bones. As he ran his eyes over her torso, he noticed that the fabric at her waist hung oddly, bunching on the sides and hanging loosely at the front. "Turn around," he said. She gave him a questioning glance but did as he requested. When she turned, he was presented with the sight of her dirty, worn corset peeking out through the fine, navy blue muslin. He grinned to himself, amused by the juxtaposition of the tailored gown and the garments that lay beneath.

He turned away from her and placed his fingers on the ivory keys, stroking them gently, lovingly before striking a chord. "Let's begin."

* * *

Christine sang for Erik for hours, taking only short breaks to satiate her thirst. She was grateful that he had her turn away from him out into the room to sing. The stringed instruments seemed to join her, softly humming as her voice rang through them, a ghostly orchestra joining her as Erik's demanding instruction took her voice to new heights. The training she had given herself had been sufficient to extend her range, but with Erik's guidance, her voice grew in timbre and volume as well.

Near the end of the lesson, Erik began playing a song that was hauntingly familiar, a piece of his own creation. It was The Point of No Return. Christine hesitated. They had sung it together once before on the night he had discovered her on the stage. It was a far cry from the pieces he had her sing throughout the lesson; those had been in German or Italian, all from comedies of old. Songs that were light and required little thought or intensity of emotion.

Erik paused expectantly at her cue, and she raised her voice to sing Aminta's first line. When she was done, the music stopped, and Erik rose from his bench.

"That is enough for tonight," he said gruffly. She made a move to turn to him, but he stopped her with a hand on each shoulder. "You did well," he said as his hands worked the buttons of her gown free. A blush blossomed across her chest and shoulders as she remembered their deal, and when the gown fell loose, she pressed a hand to her breasts to keep it from falling away entirely.

"Th-thank you," she said haltingly, turning to face him. She looked inquiringly into his eyes, but they were hooded and he would not meet her gaze.

"May I come back tomorrow?" she asked, wishing he would look at her. He nodded, then lifted her shawl from the nearby bench and wrapped it around her shoulders and gestured the door with a short bow.

"Good night, Christine."

"Good night, Erik," she replied as she stepped away from him. In the doorway, she paused and glanced behind her to find Erik's gaze trained on her retreating form. She caught his eyes for a moment, then stepped forward and softly closed the door, letting her fingers linger on the brass doorknob. She turned quickly after one step forward and snatched up her lantern, remembering Mssr. Bouchard's warning of his displeasure should she lose it. She pulled a match from her skirt pocket and carefully lit the wick, twisting the knob until it shone brightly enough to light her way.

The floorboards squeaked softly under her feet as she padded down the hallway, but Christine could barely hear it above the rapid pounding of her heart. Their lesson had ended abruptly, unexpectedly. Though he was a demanding master, she felt she could have sung for him until the sun rose.

Was it because of the song? she thought, thinking of the way he would not meet her gaze, the way he looked at her on her way out as if trying to understand a grand mystery. Grander than you could imagine, she thought, the corners of her mouth tugging down into a frown.

Christine descended the staircase to the foyer quickly for fear that Mssr. Bouchard would return and find her on the second floor. As she stepped down from the final stair, a knock rang at the front door. She paused for a moment, not sure what to do, but when the knock rang more insistently, she hurried forward to open the door. She opened it just a crack, holding her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

"Who is it?" she inquired into the night. A gentleman stepped forward into the slim shaft of light from her lantern. His skin was deeply tanned and a thick black mustache rested beneath his long, thick ridge of a nose. His eyes were sharp and black, and in the dark, she could not distinguish iris from pupil.

"Who are you?" he inquired placing a hand on the outside of the door and putting enough pressure to make Christine take a small step back.

"Sir, it is an odd time of the night to come calling. Do you have an appointment with the master of the house?" Christine's heart was racing in her chest. She hoped Mssr. Bouchard would not find out about this.

"My dear," the gentleman said with a small smirk, "with this gentleman I need no appointment. Tell the master of the house," he extended each syllable mockingly, "Nadir Khan will see him."

Christine grimaced, "Sir, I do not believe Mssr. Chenet would…"

Nadir moved his hand to the edge of the door and pushed into the foyer, closing the door firmly behind him. "I will wait here, girl. Now go."

Helplessly, Christine sighed and dutifully returned up the stairs to seek Erik. She fervently prayed that Erik would not be angry with her for allowing this man, she refused to any longer think of him as a gentleman, to push into his home.

She knocked at his door gently, hoping he would not answer. Her hopes were disappointed when he flung the door open angrily and bore down on her.

"What is it now?" he hissed. "Need help getting tucked in?" He pulled her body against him roughly, "Back for a different lesson?"

Christine pushed the palm of her free hand against his chest, shocked by his turn in behavior. His eyes glinted in the light of her lamp, shifting wildly as he ran his gaze over her face. "No," she said gasping, trying to put some distance between them. "No, a man is downstairs."

He gripped her more tightly, his gaze hardening and flicking towards the stairs. "What man?" he demanded. The fingers that dug into her sides burned like brands against her skin.

"Na-Nadir Khan," she said, her voice catching.

Erik exhaled sharply and released her. She stepped back, clutching her arms around her sides, still feeling where he had held her so tightly. He ran his hands through his hair and, not meeting her eyes, he said, "Please accept my apology." With that, he straightened his shoulders and strode forward towards the foyer.

Her shoulders sagged and she let out a long breath, trying to steady herself. She racked her brain, trying to think of any reason he would react to her in such a way, but she came up empty. Heaving a sigh, she followed Erik's echoing footsteps and hoped the men would let her pass without notice.

* * *

"What are you doing here, Khan?" Erik asked as he descended the stairs. Nadir turned from the painting he was examining to meet Erik's eyes.

"You know why I am here," he replied in a calm voice, the lilt of his accent ringing in through the hall.

Despite her efforts to remain invisible, Nadir's eyes turned to Christine as she strode down the stairs and through the foyer, her head bowed. Her face was shadowed, and the lumpy mask that sat against it cast a grotesque shadow. He watched until she had disappeared into the servant's quarters, then turned to Erik again.

"Is that the girl?"

Erik ran his hands through his hair again, pausing with his hands grasping the back of his skull. "Yes."

"What exactly is it that you see in her? An easy target?" Nadir asked in an amiable tone, but his words were edged with steel.

"I see a woman with the voice of an angel," Erik bit out, dropping his arms and standing tensely. The two stared at each other for several long moments, neither speaking, their eyes hard. "I think you should leave, Nadir."

"And I think I should stay," he replied. "If this girl is under your mother's employ, she is more dangerous than any of the rest. She is using a new tactic. You need me by your side."

"I am no longer a boy," Erik said in an eerily calm voice. "I need no one by my side."

Nadir resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "None the less, it is always good to have friends nearby. No matter the circumstances."

"I suppose I have no choice in the matter," Erik crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at his old friend.

"You always were good at reading people," Nadir said with a smile. "Come now, let us put unpleasantness behind us and join in some food and wine."

With a sigh, Erik acquiesced. "All right, but my patience will only last so long. I expect you to be out of the house before the week's end."

Nadir nodded his head, "That will be plenty of time to determine whether any danger will come to you from this woman."

Finally, Erik smiled and looped his arm around Nadir's neck. "Let's go get that wine then. I think Bouchard is holding some fine vintages down in the cellar."

The two men moved to the back of the house, heading towards the kitchens. As they walked, their conversation meandered. They reminisced about the good times that they had in Persia and discussed the upcoming operas. Nadir was a great fan of the theater, and Erik used his clout at the Opéra Populaire to get him box seats for every run.

"What's coming next?" Nadir asked.

"La Buona Figliola by Piccinni," Erik replied, swinging his arms easily at his side. "The managers wanted to proceed with a more recent comedy, but I convinced them to stick with shows that will actually fill the theater."

Nadir laughed. "You always did have a way of getting what you want."

Erik shrugged. "Nothing current can hold a candle to Piccinni's work. Not just with the quality of the music, but the popularity. We need to fill our coffers if we are to convince the public to attend the season finale."

"Something new?"

"Yes. In fact, we will be performing _Don Juan_ ," Erik said, his smile deepening.

"You finished?" Nadir exclaimed, his teeth flashing white in the darkness as a smile stretched across his face. "Congratulations, my friend." He clapped Erik on the back and pushed open the door of the kitchen.

A lamp sat on the table already, cutting through the darkness of the kitchen.

"Odd," Erik muttered, "It's unlike my staff to leave lamps around." He walked slowly around the kitchen, looking under tables and waving his hands into the dark shadows in the various nooks and crannies.

"Thieves rarely bring lamps," Nadir said, joining Erik in his cautious examination.

"Oh!" a voice exclaimed from the pantry. A thud accompanied the noise, and both men turned their heads towards the noise. Christine stood in her nightgown, which she had hastily tossed over her undergarments after shedding her dress. She wanted to find some maggots to clean her wound before while she slept and had found an old slab of meat near the back of the pantry, thick with the little mites. The smell was awful, but it was worth it to have the wounds on her face clean. "Please, excuse me," she said hastily, stooping to retrieve the package of rotted meat.

"Can't seem to escape you tonight," Erik said in a light tone, stalking towards her. "Were you hungry?" He took the package from her hands and sniffed it, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "I am sure we have much better fare than this."

Christine felt a blush rise in her face. How exactly could she explain that she wanted the maggots to clean the terrible wounds that festered beneath her mask? She twisted her toes into the ground and laced her hands together behind her back and looking at the ground.

Nadir stepped forward and took the package from Erik, carefully loosening the twine and opening the paper. A foul stench rose from it, but he leaned in closer. "Maggots. The meat's turned."

"I need them," Christine said, her voice pained with embarrassment.

Erik laughed, "Were you planning to eat them?"

"They can be quite good," Nadir said. "In Persia, the poor would roast them in sugar. I often received them as gifts."

"No," Christine said, nearly retching at the thought of popping one of the wriggling white bugs into her mouth. "I need them to clean a wound."

Immediately, Erik's demeanor became rigid. "Are you hurt? Was it from last night?"

"No," Christine said weakly. "I…" she trailed off. Erik gestured impatiently for her to go on. "My face…"

Realization dawned on both men's faces, and Christine buried her own face in her hands. Steeling herself, she took the package from Nadir's hands. "Please, excuse me."

"Do you need help?" Nadir asked in a kind voice. His eyes focused intently on her mask, taking in the lumps caused by the bandages beneath.

"No," Christine replied, unconsciously clutching the package to her breast, barely noticing the scatter of maggots that fell from it.

"I insist," Erik cut in with a hard tone. "We should call a doctor if you're injured."

With a groan, Christine set the package on the table. "Fine, I will accept your help. But please, do not call a doctor on my behalf. The wounds just need a bit of cleaning."

Looking triumphant, Erik walked to a nearby shelf and pulled down a second lamp, setting it near the first. He lit it carefully with a match and gestured for her to sit on a bench near the table. Wishing she could disappear, Christine sat where he directed, clutching the edges of the bench and hanging her head.

Nadir approached her and set a hand on her shoulder. "Come now, let's have a look."

She turned her face to him. For the first time, she saw that his eyes were a dark brown rather than black. When he wasn't angrily pushing his way into the house, his face was quite kind. Small wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes, showing that he was a man who enjoyed laughter. His dark skin was smooth, like a fine chocolate mousse, and his beard was thick with curls.

Christine set her face in an impassive mask and raised her hands to the straps that wound around her head, releasing them carefully to avoid tangling them in her hair. She pulled the satin mask away from her face, but the bandages stuck.

Nadir raised a hand to the bandages and tugged at them. Christine hissed, sucking in her breath sharply as they pulled at her skin.

Erik strode around the table and stayed Nadir's hand. "Get us water," he commanded. Nadir nodded and pulled a bucket from the wall, heading to the pump behind the house to fill it. "How did this happen?"

Christine shrugged, "Simple neglect. My previous mask was ill fitting, and I simply did not care to do anything about the sores."

"But now you do?" he asked softly, placing a hand on her unmarred cheek and raising her head so he could see her bright eyes shining in the lamplight.

"I am now a maid in a fine house," she said in an even tone. "I must care for myself so I can continue to serve and earn my place in this household."

At her mention of her role in the household, Erik dropped his hand from her cheek. "Indeed."

"The water, Erik," Nadir said, heaving the bucket onto the table. Erik nodded and cupped some water in his hands.

"Tilt your head back," Erik said to Christine. She complied, and he wet the bandages with several scoops of water. The cool liquid felt good against her face, and she closed her eyes and sighed. When the bandages were loose enough, Erik carefully worked them free, finally pulling them back entirely.

Both men let out a whoosh of air at the sight of her face. The scars were terrible, but the festering wounds made her visage especially grisly. The sores crossed the expanse of her cheek and shone bright red. The edges of the wounds, which had been white after she cleaned it in the morning, had grown black from the lack of air.

"You should not cover them," Nadir said, turning from her to start a fire in the hearth. "The air will help them heal more quickly."

"Perhaps," Christine replied stiffly. She doubted that Mssr. Bouchard would agree, though.

The three sat quietly as Nadir brought the water to a boil. Erik pulled a bottle of wine from the cellar and poured it into three glasses. He pressed one into Christine's hand, and she opened her mouth to protest.

"You'll be glad for it once Nadir starts cleaning your wounds," he said softly. Remembering the pain she had felt while cleaning the wounds in the morning, Christine nodded and drank the wine. "All of it," Erik said when she stopped after one gulp. She complied and drained the glass, which he promptly refilled. "One more."

Christine drank it all and handed the glass back to him. He filled it again, but she held up a hand. Her stomach filled with warmth from the wine and her head started to feel a bit fuzzy. She hiccupped, drawing a laugh from Erik. "Let me know if you need more." She nodded and offered him a lazy smile as her body relaxed.

Nadir pulled the water from the fire and set it on the table. Steam rose from it and he carefully poured cool water into it to lower the temperature. "This will hurt," he said, dipping a clean cloth into it and approaching her. She nodded and raised her face to him, closing her eyes under his ministrations.

She winced as he scrubbed the wounds, her fingernails digging into the soft wood of the bench. When he paused to clean the rag, she let out an involuntary whimper. "Nearly done," Nadir said in a quiet voice. He touched her chin to let her know he was starting again, and she nodded.

When he was done, her face felt as if it had been pushed into a fire. It burned everywhere, and her fingers itched to smooth over the inflamed flesh. She raised a hand to touch it, but Nadir slapped it away. "No."

She opened her eyes and watched as he carefully pulled several maggots from the rotted meat. Erik stood by in the shadows, watching her closely with a glass of wine dangling from his fingers.

Christine clenched her teeth as Nadir placed the maggots around the various wounds. "You will need to sleep carefully tonight so as not to dislodge them."

"Do I need to pull them off?" she asked. She had been very young the last time her wounds were treated this way, young and lost in another lifetime, and she could not remember.

"No, they will fall off on their own. They only eat dead flesh. They do not care for the living."

Christine resisted the urge to nod, keeping her face upturned. When Nadir stepped back, she started to rise, but he pressed a hand into her shoulder. "Erik will carry you to your bed. It is the best way to ensure that they remain."

She watched out of the corner of her eye as Erik pushed himself off the wall, gazing at Nadir with an odd look on his face. The dark man nodded. "I will prepare food and drink. I will see you in the study in ten minutes time." His voice was hard with authority, and Christine wondered about the tension that suddenly rose between the men.

With a swift motion, Erik grasped her behind the back and knees and lifted her. Nadir pushed her mask into her hands, along with a set of clean bandages. "Leave it uncovered as much as you can."

"Thank you," she replied quietly, clutching the scraps of cloth in her hands.

Erik turned from the man and strode from the kitchen, heading towards her room with long, even strides. He navigated through the dark easily, barely pausing as he rounded corners and pushed through doors. When he reached her room, he carried her across the threshold and set her gently on the bed. He took her mask and the bandages from her hands and set them on the table beside her.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, returning to her side and taking one of her hands in his.

"For what?" she asked confusedly, looking up into his face and trying to make out his features.

"That you must bear this burden," he said, carefully raising a hand to the marred side of her face and drawing his finger along her jaw.

An image of him suddenly rose before her, the flesh of his face torn with scars and sores more ferocious than her own. She reached up to touch his face, marveling at the smooth skin of his cheek and the rough patches of hair that grew along the length of his jaw. "It is a burden I bear gladly," she said softly.

He turned his face into her hand and held it there for a moment. "Get some rest," he said. "You will need your strength tomorrow."

Christine nodded carefully and dropped her hand from his cheek. He rose to leave but hesitated at the door.

"Erik," she called out. He turned back to her expectantly, taking several steps forward. "I left my lamp in the kitchen. Mssr. Bouchard will have my head if he finds it there."

Laughing, Erik closed the gap to her bed in a few steps. "It will be here for you in the morning." He pressed his hands into the bed on either side of her shoulders and leaned in above her. Even in the dark, she could see the gold of his eyes. A fire burned there as he hovered over her, and the air around them grew thick. He leaned closer, and she felt a thrill grow in her chest. He pressed a kiss against her lips and whispered, "Sleep well, sweet Christine." Then he turned and strode from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.


	11. Impressions

When Erik reached his study, Nadir was standing at the window with a glass of wine in his hand, staring thoughtfully at the back gardens, which were cast in an unearthly glow from the candles burning in the windows of his neighbor's homes. The long, spiny branches of the dead rose bushes shifted in the wind, and Nadir could almost hear the brittle cracks as the wood bent against it.

"She puts on a good show," Nadir said finally, turning from the window, "better than the others."

"Stop, Nadir," Erik said in a sharp voice. He could not believe that any woman would go so far as to injure her already torn face just for a few extra moments with him. "She did not know that we would come to the kitchens, how could she?"

Nadir shrugged, "Women have ears, too, Erik. We did little to hide our voices."

With a growl, Erik picked up the bottle of wine and poured himself a full glass, the liquid barely kissing the rim. He took a long, deep drink, and leveled and icy gaze at his friend. "If this is all you wish to discuss, I am going to bed."

"It is _necessary_ to discuss, Erik. Since she has entered your home, how many times has she come upon you, or you her, unexpectedly?"

"A few," Erik replied, hiding his face behind his wine as he raised it for another drink.

"And in each of those circumstances, she needed something from you, I suppose?"

With a roll of his eyes, Erik walked to the chaise and dropped upon it. "Yes, but only the first seems like it could have been planned."

Nadir watched him expectantly, letting the silence hang between them until Erik elaborated in a petulant tone, "She needed help removing her dress."

"A thing women commonly seek help for from their employers," Nadir said in a sarcastic tone. He moved across the room and dropped into a high-backed wooden chair across from his friend, leaning back and putting his legs on the table between them. "And the others?"

"Other than the kitchen, she only came to notify me of your presence," Erik said. "A circumstance certainly not of her own making."

"Perhaps," Nadir ruminated, "or perhaps your mother notified her that I would track you down the moment she came to town. That I would likely not leave your side until she was gone."

"Or perhaps she was the only servant in the house and felt it was her duty to answer the door," Erik replied in a testy voice.

"There are many options," Nadir said, stroking his chin. Though he was no longer employed as one, his mind never stopped working as it did when he was a detective. He had never seen Marcella, Erik's mother, go to such extremes to sink her claws into Erik's life, but the timing was too close to be a coincidence. That a young woman captivated his friend's attention the same day his bitch of a mother rode into town was never a coincidence. In the past, sweet, beautiful women had turned to vipers. One had even earned a marriage proposal from the boy before he learned of her true intentions.

She had masqueraded as a kitchen wench. Marcella knew the boy had a weakness for women she considered below them. Her hair had been thick, black, and straight and flowed in shiny waves below her waist. With a voice as sweet as honey suckle, she had lured Erik into a false sense of security. The two spent over a year dancing around one another, sharing their music. Nadir had even been convinced that she was true and honest in her love for Erik. Perhaps she even was. But in the end, the girl had revealed her true colors. With the help of hired men, she dragged Erik to his mother in chains.

Nadir had found him in the dungeons of the home his mother kept in Egypt, nearly dead from thirst and hunger. She had planned to torture him into acquiescence. The girl's throat was slit and her body discarded in the Nile, where it made a fine meal for the crocodiles. Far easier to discard a corpse than to let a rich woman with a big mouth out into the world.

Under the cover of darkness, the two fled Egypt and headed for France. Nadir knew that Marcella would find them eventually, though. Erik would never truly be free of her.

"She is not Mayar," Erik said in a tight voice, "she is not Mayar, Fairuzeh, Nima, or Yareen. She is not like the others." He drained his glass and filled it again, tossing it back and staring at the fire burning in the hearth. "She's not like them."

Nadir sighed. "I truly hope that is the case, my friend. You will understand my hesitance to believe it."

Silence sat between them like a stone. Erik's mind raced with memories of the women who had betrayed him in the past. Nadir's suspicions weaved through his memories of Christine like a poison. What had she meant by coming to him with her dress half undone? Why had she run from him the day that he intended to ask her to come home with him, even if only as a servant girl? How had she known that he would ask?

He threw his glass across the room, and it shattered against the wall. Had she known he would be at the opera that night to retrieve his manuscript? How in the hell did she know the music to _Don Juan_?

"Are the pieces falling into place?" Nadir asked in a calm voice. He knew Erik's temper well, and the only way to quell it was to face it without fear, calmly and without judgment.

"Fuck," Erik cursed loudly. He could still feel her soft lips against his as he kissed her goodnight. When he closed his eyes, he could see her as she was in his dreams, her face whole and unbroken. He took several deep breaths, leaning his head far back to stare at the ornamented ceiling. In his dreams, she shone like a beacon, drawing him as a fly to the flame. She was unearthly in her beauty. Could that be her, truly? Or was the dream girl only a fantasy of a man broken too many times? "I can think of this no longer."

Nadir nodded and rose to his feet, depositing his wine glass on the table. "Then I will bid you good night." He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the opulent handle. "Did you kiss her?" he asked in a quiet voice. Not waiting for an answer, he turned the handle and slipped from the room, drawing it closed behind him with a soft click.

* * *

Christine's fingers lingered on her lips, which still tingled from Erik's touch. His kiss had been so sweet, so gentle, so unlike the first and only kiss she had shared with the dark man who lived beneath the opera. That kiss had been wild with unrestrained passion, pent up for years. She wondered whether her kisses with this whole, beautiful Erik could ever reach such heights. She wondered whether it would happen again. Thinking happily that it might, she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, hoping she would not turn to her side and dislodge the maggots busily cleaning her wound.

After too few hours, a sharp knock came at her door. She sat up quickly, causing maggots to scatter across her blankets. With shaking hands, she picked up one of the bandages and picked the maggots off the bed, gagging as she did so. No matter how well these little bugs cleaned her wounds, she could hardly bear to see their little wriggling bodies.

She dropped the cloth into her water basin and turned to the small mirror that hung on the wall. All the maggots had fallen off, and her wounds looked much better than they had the day before. The edges were clean, and scars had formed across her cheeks. They pricked at her skin when she moved her face, but she thought they would not break.

The knock came at her door more insistently, and she called out, "Just a moment." With nimble hands, she fastened her mask in place and pulled open the door.

Mssr. Bouchard stood in front of her, staring down the length of his nose. His eyes passed over her from head to toe, taking in her hair, disheveled from sleep, and her wrinkled nightgown. "You would do well to get a clock," he said in a firm tone. "The work in this household begins early in the morning, and I will not tolerate lazing about in bed all day."

Christine frowned. It couldn't be more than four in the morning. She hardly considered sleep at this hour lazing about all day, but she could not argue with the rigid man. "My apologies sir."

He gave her a stiff nod. "Ready yourself. A seamstress will be here in ten minutes to take your measurements."

"Measurements?"

"As I said last night," he said slowly as if he were talking to a daft child, "the staff in this household are my responsibility, and I expect each of you to be impeccable in every way. We will start with your clothes. Then you will have daily lessons with me so that you may learn the proper way to walk, speak, and act while serving your betters."

His tone chafed her pride. What would he think if she told him that she had spent years walking among the elite of France wearing fine silks with the Vicomte de Chagny at her side? But that was another life. Oftentimes, it felt like she was another person entirely.

"Yes, sir," she said, dipping into a curtsy.

He returned her gesture with a bow and walked away. She pushed the door closed behind him and set about changing her clothes. When she was once again clad in the uniform she had worn in the opera, she walked to the kitchen to retrieve water to wash. The bucket that Nadir had used the night before to gather water still sat on the table, and she quickly stashed it away. She would leave no evidence that she had done other than Mssr. Bouchard had ordered her.

When she was clean and ready with her mask securely in place, she stood at the doorway to her room, not sure where to go. Mssr. Bouchard appeared and gestured for her to follow, which she did with haste. He led her to a small room in the servants quarters, just big enough to accommodate the three of them.

"She will need three sets of everything," Mssr. Bouchard intoned. "Undergarments should be plain and white. No frills, no lace. Simple." The last he said with a sharp look at the girl, who blushed. "Her dresses will be black with white collars, in the style of the rest of the household. One cloak, one set of leather shoes."

"Anything else, sir?" the girl asked.

"That will be all, Mlle. Graive," he said as he swept from the room.

The girl turned to Christine, her eyes resting for a moment on the mask that sat on her face. Christine turned her head away.

"Who gave you that, then?" the girl asked in a soft voice, starting to unlace Christine's dress.

"I don't remember," Christine replied, surprised by the concern that lingered in the girl's question.

"Probably best that way," she said, setting aside the tattered dress. She paused in her movements and looked to the door, which still stood open. When she was certain Mssr. Bouchard was not likely to appear, she pulled down the shoulder of her long-sleeved dress, revealing thick scars that crossed her back. "I got these from my father when I dropped a bucket of milk."

Christine reached out a hand, "May I?"

The girl nodded, and she touched a finger to the girl's back, tracing along the thick lines. "I left that old bastard quick as I could and came here. I was lucky. Found myself a job at a dress shop. Most girls who come to Paris are not so lucky."

Pulling the dress back in place, she unrolled a length of measuring tape, carefully holding it against Christine's limbs and wrapping it around her body, stopping to note the measurements as she went.

"Why did Mssr. Bouchard tell you not to put lace on my undergarments?" Christine asked after several long minutes passed. The girl laughed and set aside her measuring tape, reaching for a cup of coffee that sat steaming on a nearby table.

"The last new girl had a certain taste for fine things. She gave me extra to put some sweet things on her garments, wanting to show them off to her latest love. She didn't know, however, that Mssr. Bouchard examines every incoming package. I completed the request, and she found herself scraping chamber pots for a month."

Christine laughed, "No need for that with me. I've got enough to clean without adding chamber pots to the list."

"Aye, I am sure you do," the girl said.

"Do you know much about this household?" Christine asked casually.

"I do," she replied. "I've made great friends with several of the staff here. Mssr. Chenet is generous with his servants, which is good business for our shop."

"And how do they find it?"

Smiling knowingly, the girl elaborated, "Mssr. Bouchard is a hard bastard, but he's very fair. He will not beat you, but he may shame you into wishing you were dead. Serve him well, and you will do well."

Christine nodded. It was much as she imagined of the man, and it was a confirmation she needed. When her measurements were taken, the girl extended her hand. "My name is Noelle."

Christine took it, "I am Christine."

"Find me if you ever need anything," Noelle said, "whether clothes or just a friend."

With that, Noelle walked from the room, her basket of measuring tape, needles, and thread tucked beneath her arm. Barely a moment after Noelle walked out, Mssr. Bouchard walked in.

"Because it is Sunday, you may be excused from your duties," he said. "If you wish."

"I will attend church if you will direct me to a nearby chapel, but then I will start my work. There is much to be done."

For the first time, a small smile crept onto Mssr. Bouchard's face. "As you wish."

* * *

Christine coughed loudly, waving away the dust that had raised around her. She was surrounded by piles of items, separated out by the value she thought they had. In the lowest pile lay several children's toys, dolls, balls, and singing boxes. The current master of the house would have no need for them, considering his lack of a wife, and she thought Mssr. Bouchard might agree.

 _No wife_ , she thought to herself with a smile, starting to polish a pile of silver plates. Those she would place in a pile of items with high value to be sold rather than kept. They would draw a fine sum, hopefully easing the cost of her new set of clothing. She looked down at her dress, which was coated with a thick layer of dust. _Perhaps I should continue to wear these rags until they are completely ruined._

It would save her a lot of extra laundry during the week, giving her more time to devote to her duties. She hummed as her work, falling into the easy rhythm of cleaning. She was grateful for the months of practice that she had at the opera. In her old life, she would have complained loudly at being forced to polish and categorize long-forgotten junk.

Now, though, she welcomed the work. It gave her time to think, especially of Erik, of his lips soft against hers, of his voice directing her as he once again taught her his music. It was the same as it had been, but different. He was easier now, less likely to fly into a rage. She was still mesmerized by him, but she never lost herself in a dream. Finally, she could see him as a man rather than angel, teacher, or monster.

She hummed as she worked, smiling as she pulled each new item from its place. When the first row of shelves was clean, she wiped them down, restoring the items they were to keep back to their place. The rest she packed into crates, carefully wrapping breakable objects in linens. She hefted one of the crates, moaning under the weight. Her strength had grown with practicing ballet, but her frame was not built for carrying such heavy objects. She dropped it with a thud and propped her hand on her hip, pondering how she would get everything downstairs.

"Can't carry it all at once," she said, stroking her chin. "Perhaps just a bit at a time, then."

She laid out a linen cloth on the floor and started pulling things from the crate, pausing to test the weight. When it was full, but not too heavy, she pulled the corners together and hefted it over her shoulder. With careful steps, she navigated the narrow stairs in the servant passage, making her way down to the store room. There she set out her burden and returned to the attic to take the next load.

In the final load, she carried the few remaining items within the unwieldy crate. Her back was soaked with sweat, and her hair hung limply against her neck. She stumbled on the last step and was sent careening to the floor. The crate tipped on its side, sending the contents flying.

Thankful that she had put heavy, unbreakable items at the bottom of the crate, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. She took inventory of her body, hoping she had not hurt herself too badly. Despite bruises forming on her elbows where she had caught herself, she was unhurt. Breathing a sigh of relief, she righted the crate and went about packing away the contents.

"I caution you to be more careful next time," Mssr. Bouchard intoned, causing her to jump.

She turned to him and curtsied. "Please, excuse me. I tripped on the last stair. It will not happen again."

Mssr. Bouchard nodded and peered into the crate. "What have you found?"

"There are several books that I thought might interest Mssr. Chenet," she said. "Biographies of great composers and a few books of music." She reached into the bottom of the crate and pulled out a medium-sized bronze bust. "A previous occupant, I think." She said, holding it out to the stoic butler.

"Indeed," he said, taking the bust into his hands. "He was my favorite. I am glad that you found it."

"Other than these items, I found several sets of fine dinnerware which may be reused or sold," she continued.

Mssr. Bouchard nodded his approval. "I will review your findings. Leave them in the store room. When you are done, please change into your other dress and meet me in the parlor for coffee."

"Yes, sir," she said, curtsying again.

He turned on his heel and left, leaving her to finish her duties. A smile played across her lips. The name on the bust had given away the identity of the man, who she remembered Mssr. Bouchard said was his favorite master. Nothing better to gain ground with the man than gifting him with the memory of an old master of the house.

Having accomplished what she set out to do for the day, she retreated to her room to change. As she passed the room of a woman named Marie, she heard laughter and the sound of women's voices coming from within. The household, small as it was, was coming to life again. No more dark, silent hallways that led her to the master of the house and his music. She wondered how they would find time together again, for him to teach her again, to sing together.

She sighed, pushing away the thought for another time, and stepped into her room to change.


	12. One Week

Christine tossed aside another dirty rag, and it tumbled down the small pile that had accumulated throughout the day. She pulled a clean rag from her apron and returned to dusting the empty shelving in the attic with sharp, furious movements.

A week had passed since she last saw Erik. A long, miserable week during which she choked on dust all day and attended interminably boring etiquette lessons with Mssr. Bouchard in the evenings before collapsing into her bed. Despite the hard work, she found little sleep. All she could think of was slipping from her room and going to Erik's study in the hopes of finding him at his organ or with a violin tucked under his chin.

She had been tempted many times to slip from her bed and up the stairs to see if he was there, but she resisted. If Mssr. Bouchard found her out and about, she would be fired and pushed out onto the street, and based on his hawk-like supervision so far, he would. Mme. Giry would likely help her regain her position at the opera, but she couldn't return there. Not if it meant watching Erik directing rehearsals all day and scrubbing the stage where not long ago Joseph Buquet found his bitter end.

Christine wiped the last bit of dust from the shelf and stepped back to examine her work. In the last week, she'd spent 12 hours a day pulling items from shelves, cleaning and sorting them, and hauling items for reuse, resale, or disposal down to the main storage room for Mssr. Bouchard to review. Thus far, he had not sent any items back up to the attic, which she found gratifying.

She set her hands on her hips and looked over to the large section of the attic filled with furniture. Most she would need assistance with getting downstairs, and she wondered whether she could ask for assistance from one of the stable hands. Tossing the now dirty rag into her ever growing pile, she wandered over to a love seat covered with a white sheet. She pulled it away, coughing as it raised a cloud of dust.

Even in the pale candle light, she could see that this was an extremely fine piece of furniture. The fabric was an embroidered silk brocade in cream and periwinkle blue. She wiped her hand on her skirt then ran her fingers over it, savoring the soft feeling of the silk. The wood was dark English chestnut, and finely carved ivy wound around the legs, each leaf extending delicately outward. The stuffing seemed still intact, and she pressed into it firmly a few times to dislodge any mice. Luckily her efforts were met with silence instead of squeaking and the scurry of feet.

With a grateful sigh, she sat back on the couch, swinging her legs up onto it. She leaned back against the cushioned armrest and stretched widely, her wrists and ankles cracking as she rotated her hands and feet. Yawning, she rested her hands on her abdomen and closed her eyes. Just a quick nap, she thought. _No more than ten minutes._

* * *

Erik paced his study, flipping through his manuscript for _Don Juan_ and stopping occasionally to scribble out passages or write in notes. He muttered to himself, putting his ink-stained fingers against his lips as he pondered, then drawing it through his hair.

"You should take a rest, my friend," Nadir said from his perch on the chaise, twirling a glass of brandy in his hands.

"And you should bloody go home," Erik growled, pausing again to scribble, cursing when the tip of his pen broke under the pressure of his writing.

Nadir followed him with his eyes as he retreated to his desk to retrieve a new pen. Erik's hair was disheveled and oily from lack of care. His shirt was stained with as much ink as it was with sweat, and it hung loosely from the waistband of his pants. He wore no shoes at all, and the bottoms of his feet were black with dirt as if he were an urchin boy again.

Erik had not changed his clothes in three days had only been to the opera twice this week. Surely his absence was a relief to the managers, but Nadir worried about the state that this left his friend in. Going to the opera house and providing creative guidance was Erik's passion, his reason to wake in the morning. Now he was distracted from his purpose, buried in his work. _Or buried in the girl?_ Nadir mused.

He had been careful to keep Erik from going to her. He had caught the boy wandering towards the servants quarters more than once, a determined gleam in his eye. At those times, Nadir stopped him with a firm hand and led him back to his study with a quiet, "What will the others think, hmm?"

The first night, Erik had come with him, accepting the drink that Nadir pushed into his hands as they sat together in the study. Each night he had grown more agitated, though, cursing Nadir and his over-protectiveness.

Nadir himself was starting to doubt whether the girl was associated with Erik's mother. She had made no further attempts to see Erik, intentionally or otherwise. Nadir had sought her out a few times, just to see what she was up to. He had even interviewed Mssr. Bouchard on her progress with the excuse that he was checking in on the household on behalf of his friend.

The girl worked tirelessly each day, spending hours cleaning and clearing out the attic. Even Mssr. Bouchard was impressed with her work ethic, and Nadir had never heard him praise anyone so effusively on how quickly she learned. It was his understanding that the girl came to him needing much in the way of learning etiquette and the arts of serving a fine household. In a short span, she was walking gracefully and speaking as if she had been serving for years. Mssr. Bouchard praised her so intently that Nadir wondered if he wasn't starting to carry a flame for the girl, despite her grotesquely mutilated face.

"Perhaps you are right," he finally replied, drawing Erik's sharp gaze. "I miss my Arak."

"Good," Erik said, slapping his manuscript down on his desk. "I'll have John call you a carriage."

Nadir pushed himself to his feet and walked to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You know that I have stayed out of concern for you."

Erik sighed and nodded, "I know. Thank you."

Nadir smiled and squeezed the younger man's shoulder affectionately. "Please call upon me if you need anything."

Erik placed a hand over his, "You know that I will."

Nadir raised a skeptical eyebrow but nodded. "Then I bid you farewell, my friend. I will find a hack, no need to bother John."

Erik watched as his friend retreated from his study. It had been a hellish week. Nadir's watch over him chafed his pride and made him feel like a useless boy again. All over some girl with a gnarled face and the voice of an angel. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, for the first time noticing that it was thick with grease. _I need a bath_ , he groused, pulling his shirt out and running his fingers over the stains that had accumulated.

He pulled the bell cord in the study and waited for a maid to appear. In minutes, she appeared in the door of the study. "Yes, Mssr.?"

"Draw me a bath," he said. "And please lay out a fresh set of clothing."

"Certainly," she said with a smile, then curtsied and strode away to do her business. His staff was accustomed to his occasional bouts of obsessive composing, and they were always pleased to see them come to an end. Though they were his servants, it seemed that they cared about his well-being. Marie, especially. She fussed over him whenever he let her, her motherly instincts overcoming the boundaries that normally existed between master and servant.

Erik wandered to his room, falling back onto the bed and closing his eyes as Marie bustled in and out, setting out the washing basin and bringing in buckets of water. When the final bucket was poured and fresh clothes were laid out for him, she asked, "Is there anything else, Mssr.?"

"No, thank you, Marie," he replied, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Will you be leaving for the weekend?"

"Yes, Mssr.," she said with a smile. "My Hugo turned twelve this week, and I've saved up enough to buy him a sugar cake."

"Excellent," Erik said, getting to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. "Extend my best wishes to him."

"Thank you, Mssr.," she said, curtsying and walking out the door, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.

Erik tested the steaming water with his fingers and dropped in a few scoops of cool water to even the temperature. When he was satisfied, he stripped away his clothes and sank into the bath, moaning as the hot water eased the tension in his muscles. He lay that way for several minutes, just enjoying the water, then set about scrubbing away the spots of ink that covered his body. He lathered the bar of soap in his hands, getting a handful of bubbles, then dunked his head beneath the surface and scrubbed his hair.

When he was done, he stepped from the tub, dripping on the carpet as he reached for a towel to dry himself. He had just fastened his robe when a sharp knock came at the door. "Yes?" he called.

The door swung open to reveal Mssr. Bouchard and Christine, whose face was scarlet and streaked with tears. Her dress was filthy, coated in a thick layer of dust, and her hair was sticking out at odd angles. Mssr. Bouchard had a hand firmly on her upper arm, and she winced as he tightened his grip.

"What's the meaning of this?" Erik asked, never taking his eyes from Christine's tear streaked face.

"She was asleep," Mssr. Bouchard said in a cold voice. "I thought perhaps she was doing well, but she has shown her true colors. There is no room in this household for a lazy girl. I believe it is time to send her back to where she came from."

"I see," Erik said, stroking his chin. "And she sleeps often?"

Mssr. Bouchard raised his nose in the air, "Not that I am aware."

"And is her work not complete?"

"It is," Mssr. Bouchard bit out, "sufficient. But there is no room on my staff for a girl who sleeps on the job."

"It is my staff," Erik said coolly drawing a sharp glare from Mssr. Bouchard. He turned to Christine. "Mlle. Daaé?"

"I am sorry," she said in a small voice, not meeting his eyes. The pain in her voice caused his chest to contract. Mssr. Bouchard squeezed her arm again, and she winced. Erik barely resisted the urge to smack the man for hurting her. "It will never happen again. I was just so tired…" her voice trailed off. In it, he could only hear pain and fear, nothing of the sweet music she had shared with him.

Erik turned to Mssr. Bouchard. "I believe we can forgive this transgression," he said. "The girl seems truly regretful."

Mssr. Bouchard pursed his lips, "Sir, I must insist…"

"And I insist that you give her another chance," Erik cut him off, cutting his hand through the air for emphasis.

"As you wish," the man said with a stiff bow.

He turned to leave, tugging Christine behind him, but Erik called out, "Mlle. Daaé, a word please?"

She hesitated, glancing down at the hand Mssr. Bouchard still had wrapped around her arm. "Mssr. Bouchard?"

The man looked down his long nose, "Mssr., Chenet you are barely dressed."

"I am dressed enough to receive your complaints about my staff, and I am dressed enough to discuss your complaints with Mlle. Daaé," Erik said, a sharp edge in his voice.

Though his face was creased with displeasure, Mssr. Bouchard released Christine's arm and nodded once. He gave Erik a neat bow, eyes flashing with disdain, and he strode away.

Erik took a moment to examine Christine's appearance. Despite the dirt that clung to her and her distraught face, she looked like an oasis to him. He had thought of little other than her all week, now she was finally here, in the flesh. He wanted to reach out and smooth her hair and draw her close, to ask her what had really happened, whether she was being treated well.

Instead, he took a step back and gestured for her to enter his room.

She took a deep breath and stepped in, keeping her eyes glued to the carpet. "I am so sorry, Mssr. Chenet," she burst out suddenly. "I was just going to close my eyes for a few moments. I was so tired."

"Hush," he said, resisting the urge to reach out to her. "Have you forgotten that you must call me Erik?"

She raised her eyes to his, "I thought, perhaps…" She trailed off and turned her eyes to the carpet again. "I thought you had decided…"

"Decided what?" he asked gently.

"I wanted to come to you," she burst out, still not meeting his eyes. "I have missed singing so desperately, but I was afraid that Mssr. Bouchard would find me. I hoped that you would come to me," she turned her eyes to him sharply. "You didn't."

"No," he mused. _By no choice of my own_ , he thought, thinking of the times Nadir had found him about to enter the servant's quarters and led him away.

Silence hung between them for a moment, and Christine searched his eyes. They were focused on a point behind her head, cloudy with reflection. When he did not speak, she turned to leave, but he stepped forward and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"I would like to start lessons," he said, "on an official basis."

Christine stopped and turned back to him. He was close, inches away. She stared at the patch of hair that peeked out from beneath his robe. It looked soft, and her hand twitched, wanting to run her fingers through it.

"I want you to meet me in the music room each night, after dinner," he said.

"I have etiquette lessons after dinner," she said distractedly, still staring at the V of chest revealed before her.

Erik barked a laugh, "I doubt you are in need of them."

She shrugged, "Mssr. Bouchard may disagree."

Erik looked out into the hallway, wondering if the butler was lingering, eavesdropping on their conversation. He moved to the door and peeked out, happily noting that it was empty. He closed the door and turned back to Christine, "I will speak with him. But you must come to me, each night, without delay."

"Yes," she said with a smile. _As it always was._

He returned her smile and stepped forward to take her hands into his own. "I am sorry," he said quietly, swiping his thumb across her knuckles.

"For what?" she asked breathily, his closeness throwing her off balance.

"For not coming to you, for letting you make your way alone in this household, for everything that came before that," he raised a hand to gently touch her mask. "Is it healing well?"

Christine blushed, remembering how he and Nadir had helped her care for her wounds and the sweet kiss that still burned on her lips. "Yes," she replied shakily, "it's nearly healed."

"May I?" he asked, moving his hand to one of the straps.

"No," she said, stepping away from him and taking a deep breath. She couldn't trust herself with him so close, especially when he was treating her so kindly. This man was a stark contrast from the Erik she once knew, sweet and gentle where her Erik had been hard and jaded.

"Please," he said, stepping forward and grasping her arm.

"I don't want you to see it," she said sharply, turning her mask away from him. It didn't matter that he'd seen it before, arguably at its worst. She couldn't bear for him to think of her that way, deformed and broken.

"Christine," he said, his voice breaking on her name.

"No, Erik," she replied roughly. "Please."

His spine tingled at the pain in her voice. He wanted to go back in time, prevent whatever had happened to her to leave her so badly scarred. She sounded so broken.

He reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her back into him and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face against his chest. "All right," he said softly into her hair. She stood still for a moment, then her arms came around him hesitantly at first, her embrace tightening as he stroked her back.

She took a deep breath, then a sob escaped her, and she buried her face in his chest. He held her as she cried, murmuring soothing words and smoothing her hair. She cried for her pain and confusion, for a life that she had not chosen but was now forced to lead. She cried for her lost friendships with the Giry women and even for the loathsome Joseph Buquet. Mostly, though, she cried because she was exhausted from a long week of wondering, worrying, and fearing that Erik had abandoned her. When she'd cried herself out, she lifted her head and looked up at him.

"Why are you so kind to me?" she asked, her voice rough. "It is more than I deserve."

"It is exactly what you deserve," he said, rubbing a thumb across her cheek to wipe away a stray tear, leaving a streak of dirt behind. She licked her dry lips, and suddenly a fire burst in his chest. He became aware of the thin layers of silk and muslin that lay between them and her warm body so close to his. He could feel her heart beating against his abdomen and her breasts pressed against him. "How do you do this to me?" he whispered before capturing her lips.

Christine leaned into the kiss, unable to do anything else. She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck, rising on the balls of her feet to meet his kiss. His tongue brushed against her lips hesitantly, then more forcefully, pushing past her lips. She opened her mouth to him, and she was lost.

Erik's hands slid to her waist and down her back to cup her derrière, and he pulled her against him, pulling back from her mouth and hissing with approval as his arousal pressed into her abdomen.

When the cool air hit her swollen lips, Christine gasped and stepped away from him, pushing a hand into her hair. She could barely look at him. His golden eyes were gleaming with arousal, and his robe had loosened, revealing hard pectoral muscles and a flat, firm abdomen. She blushed as she glanced at his groin, his thick member tenting the silk.

"I should go," she said, pressing a hand to her beating heart and turning her back to him.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. "Why?" he asked, lowering his face to kiss the nape of her neck.

"I can't," she said, unconsciously stretching her neck to give him better access.

He paused, "You are."

Christine shook her head to clear it and stepped from his embrace, smoothing her skirt. "No, Erik. Thank you for preventing my expulsion from your household. This, though, cannot happen." _Much as I want it to_ , the thought tore through her heart. If she allowed him to continue, she would become his concubine, nothing more. She couldn't bear for him to see her as nothing more than a commodity to be thrown away at any time. It was safer for her heart to be nothing to him but a servant and a talented singer who he could mold and teach.

She stole a glance at him. His eyes had gone cold and his stance was tense. "It can't, or it won't?"

"Either," she said, carefully moving towards the door.

He advanced on her, moving so quickly she had no time to react. "The distinction is important, Christine," he said, sneering as he said her name. She pressed her back into the door, grasping the handle, and he placed a hand on either side of her head, leaning down so they were face to face. "It can't, or it won't?" he repeated.

"It won't," she replied, her voice breaking.

"Why?" he asked, his voice soft but dangerous. He took a hand from the door to finger her mask. "Does it have something to do with this?"

At his mention of her deformity, Christine grew angry. He had no right to discuss it so casually, or even to assume that it would affect her judgment in this matter. She slapped his hand away. "That has nothing to do with this."

"I can see no other reason for your refusal," he replied hotly, pulling the mask off with a sharp jerk, catching her hair in the straps. She cried out in pain and raised a hand to rub her head where the strands had been yanked out. "Is it not a relief to receive my attention, despite your deformity?"

Christine jerked away as if she'd been slapped. He thought he was doing her a favor? That she should be grateful that he wanted her, despite the scars she bore? She pressed against his chest, desperate to free herself from his presence. How could this man, of all men, want to use her like this? "Let me go," she hissed.

"No," he said, pressing closer. Erik wasn't sure why he was doing this, why he wanted her to want him, why he wanted her to accept him without question, why he so desperately wanted her to say yes. "I can't."

She was glaring up at him, her turquoise eyes burning with anger. The left side of her face was oddly misshapen, the cheek sunken and her eye buried deep in the socket as if the flesh there had been stripped away. The scabs from her healing injuries were brown and cut through with white cracks. They were clearly healing well, and he thought back to the night a week before when he and Nadir had tended the wounds when he had kissed her goodnight.

He thought back, too, to the night that he had found her singing on the stage. He had kissed her that night, too, mesmerized by the voice of his Aminta, the woman before him bearing the voice he always imagined as he composed his greatest work.

"You can't or you won't?" she spat, throwing his words back at him. "The distinction is important, _Erik_."

He cringed at the anger in her voice, "I won't."

She bucked against him, fruitlessly throwing her weight against his and beating her fists against his chest. "Why?" she cried softly. "You, of all people. Why?"

He caught her wrists and pressed them back against the door, "What does that mean, 'you of all people'?"

Christine closed her mouth, her lips becoming a flat line. She was so frustrated, defeated by his assumption that she would lay with him and be grateful for it, just because of her face. For a moment, she had forgotten that this was not her Erik. He had held her in his arms so gently, comforted her as she relieved herself of the burdens that had plagued her throughout the week. She almost expected to look up and find his face covered by the porcelain mask she that was so familiar with. She had seen it in her dreams every night for a decade. But he revealed himself to be a beast

"Let me go," she said, her voice steely.

"No, what do you mean?" he asked fiercely.

"I expected better of you!" she exclaimed, straining against him. He let her go suddenly, and she stumbled forward.

Erik looked down at his hands, the same hands that moments before had held Christine against her will. She was right, he was better than this. He had nearly forced himself upon her, a mistake he would have regretted deeply. "I'm sorry," he said, pacing away from her and spreading his hands on a table, leaning into it heavily. "Will you come tomorrow? Will you still sing for me?"

She wanted to say no. She wanted to run from this house and never look back, go to the Giry women and beg them to take her in, help her find work. But she knew that she would not. Despite how he had treated her, his music and his voice still resonated in her soul like nothing else ever could. She would never turn her back to him again, even if it meant enduring his careless treatment of her.

"Yes," she said wearily. "I will sing for you."

Erik nodded, "Good. You are dismissed."

He waited until the door clicked closed behind her and he heard her retreat down the hall, then flipped the table that he leaned against, sending a vase flying to the floor. He cursed himself and his treatment of her. "How will she ever forgive me?" he whispered to himself, falling into bed and closing his eyes against his tormented thoughts.


End file.
